The Bachelor Party
by FonicsMonkey
Summary: The gang is getting back together for the most epic bachelor party of all time. But when nine guys who haven't seen each other in years are stuck together for an entire weekend, things get pretty intense. Featuring Craig/Tweek, Cartman/Kyle, Cartman/Heidi, Kyle/Wendy, & more.
1. Chapter 1

_**[Disclaimer: I am neither the creator nor the owner of South Park. Those distinctions are held by the ineffable partnership of Trey Parker & Matt Stone.]**_

 **A/N: I'm so excited to start posting a brand new story, "The Bachelor Party"! For** **those of you looking for a darker story than "The Letter," don't worry—this story will** **get pretty damn dark... And that's all I'll say about that.**

 **I'm going to try to upload a chapter each** **week, but in case my busy schedule makes uploads more erratic, make sure you follow the story to be alerted of new chapters.** **Although I have some general plot points and first few chapters planned out, I would love for this to be an interactive experience. To that end, please comment below if there's anything you would like to see in the story (such as "I want to see a chapter from Cartman's point-of-view!" or "Put in a scene with Craig and Tweek making out!"). Of course, other miscellaneous comments and _constructive_ feedback is always appreciated :)**

 **Enjoy!**

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Craig Tucker hated smoking. _Really_ hated it. He wasn't principled enough to march in the streets protesting Big Tobacco, but when he would walk down the street and pass by some asshole lighting up and blowing smoke in his face, he couldn't stop himself from glaring at the offender until they felt so uncomfortable that they moved over their disgusting, cancer-prone bodies on the sidewalk to allow him greater berth.

That being said, Craig was addicted to smoking. _Really_ addicted. And that's why he hated it so much.

He tossed his cigarette to the pavement and stamped out the flicker of light with his boot. "Fuck you, Kenny." The phrase had become a mantra of sorts, something he always muttered after finishing his daily ritual of smoking a cigarette or two during his break. He tried not to indulge in more than two, and this had been his second cigarette. That meant it was time to go back inside.

As if on cue, the metal door separating his alley sanctuary from the inside of True-Value Hardware swung open, and out popped the Manager. "There you are! What did I say about taking extended breaks?" The Manager gestured around the alley. "I swear to God, Craig, if you don't start doing your job when we pay you to do it, you'll be living in this piss-covered place before you know it."

Craig shoved both fists into the pockets of his windbreaker and followed the Manager back inside the building. He knew better than to argue with the guy. This was a crappy job, but it was a job nonetheless. And if Craig wanted to keep financing his smoking habit, he needed some source of income. No matter how fucking tragic it was.

"Could you walk any slower?" the Manager barked at him. Craig gritted his teeth and accelerated his pace just enough to appease his corporate overlord. He followed the Manager into the stock room, where a blonde guy with his back turned to door was struggling to pull a True-Value vest employee vest over his lanky frame.

 _Shit_ , Craig thought. _Not another newbie._ He hated change. He especially hated change when it came in the form of dealing with a new employee, who Craig, as the most senior low-level staff member at the store, would undoubtedly have to spend several hours training. It was always a pain, since True-Value usually hired high schoolers, as they once had with Craig, and high schoolers were as dumb as doornails. As soon as he saw the back of this new guy's head, he braced himself for an afternoon of suffering.

"Craig," the Manager started, in that sickly-sweet tone of his, "I want you to welcome the newest member of the True-Value family…" The new guy turned around. Craig flinched. _Double shit._ "…Lenny McCormick."

The new guy blinked. "Seriously? _Lenny_?" He hadn't cast a glance in Craig's direction yet—and Craig was grateful for that.

"Whoops, my _sincere_ apologies." The Manager scribbled something on his clipboard. "I can see here that it's actually Kenny. Okay, _Kenny_ , Craig here is gonna get you up to speed, and hopefully we'll have you out on the shop floor by the end of the day." The Manager exited the room, but not before shooting Craig a perfunctory smile that communicated something along the lines of _'time to do your fucking job, slacker.'_

That left Craig alone with Kenny. Craig wasn't crazy about that.

Kenny reached up and scratched the back of his head. "Hey, man. Long time no see."

Craig nodded. "Hey." What else was there to say? He hadn't seen the guy since high school. Well, that wasn't exactly true; South Park was such a small town, and neither of them had left for college. In fact, he saw Kenny everywhere: ambling on the street, napping in the back row of seats at the Bijou, tossing darts at Skeeter's. But he hadn't talked to Kenny since high school, which was, what, five years ago?

 _Damn, I'm old_ , Craig thought. Not old enough to be nostalgic about Kenny, though, or about anything else that happened at that godforsaken school.

 _Maybe I'm some sort of fucking wizard,_ he wondered _. I speaketh Kenny's name and he appeareth._

"So, how have you been?"

Craig snapped out of his thoughts quick enough to answer Kenny's question. "Uh, fine. You?"

"Got a job now, so I guess it could be worse." Kenny's mouth curved into an almost-smile.

After a few unbearable seconds of awkward silence, Craig walked over to a shelving unit. "I guess we should get started with the training." Without waiting for a response, he dove into a rapid-fire list of all the items on the shelves and where they belonged. Engaging in such a mechanical activity numbed his mind and prevented bad memories from bubbling to the surface, something they had been doing a lot lately. And seeing Kenny… Well, that would probably open the floodgates. Craig wasn't a particularly spiritual person, but he felt like Kenny's entrance into his daily life had to be some kind of omen. Whether it was going to be bad or good for Craig was still to be determined.

After half an hour of outlining every stock room-related task that Kenny would need to perform, Craig paused to look at him. He looked back at Craig with a slightly-more-happy-than-neutral expression. Kenny wasn't jaded yet—that was the problem. _Wait until he's worked here for another few fucking days._ _Then we'll see how he looks._

"That's enough work for now," Craig said, stretching. He beckoned Kenny over to the door of the stockroom. "Let's take a breather."

"Seriously?" Kenny looked confused. "Are we allowed to?"

Craig waved his hand dismissively and started walking down the hallway. "Yeah, it's fine, trust me. The Manager won't even notice we're gone. Every day, between two and two-thirty, he hides in his office and won't come out for anything. He'll have no idea we're gone."

"Alright," Kenny said, amused. "I'll take your word for it."

Soon Craig was back in the alley. He pulled out his cigarettes instinctively and started lighting one before he remembered Kenny. "Sorry," he said. "Force of habit." He stuck a cigarette in Kenny's direction.

To Craig's surprise, Kenny shook his head. "I'm good. I don't do that shit anymore." Craig's expression soured, but he didn't say anything. He just lit up and enjoyed inhaling his daily cocktail of a hundred toxic chemicals. Kenny watched Craig curiously. It made Craig's skin crawl. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Why do you keep referring to Cartman as 'the Manager'? I mean, I know who he is. You can just say his name."

A short laugh burst forth from Craig's lips, one full of dry pity and self-deprecation. "I guess I'm still in denial that Cartman has the authority to boss me around. It's like the wrestling team all over again."

"Shit," Kenny remarked, "I always forget that you guys were co-captains. The one time Cartman ever exerted his fat ass."

"Yeah. It was a nightmare." Craig flicked ash onto the ground. "He was always acting like he ran the whole thing and I was his assistant or something. He treated the whole team like dirt."

Kenny lifted one eyebrow. "Oh, and you didn't?"

Craig's eyebrow raised to match Kenny's. "Huh?"

"Come on, dude. You were the biggest bully in school."

 _Well fuck you too_. Craig instinctively raised his middle finger, which, thankfully, along with the rest of his hand, was concealed in his pocket. "We're talking about Cartman, and you're calling _me_ a bully?"

"Yeah," Kenny said, but it came out a little more hesitantly than Craig was expecting, as if he could sense Craig's heart pounding in his chest. "Sure, Cartman _terrorized_ some people, like Kyle and Butters, but mostly he just picked on his friends. He never touched the goth kids or the ugly kids. You, on the other hand, bullied practically every kid in school at least once."

 _Wow, what a smart motherfucker._ Craig cocked his head and stared off into the distance like he was thinking about all this for the first time. "That explains why I don't have friends, huh?"

That was rhetorical. Craig knew why he didn't have friends. He didn't need fucking Kenny McCormick to psychoanalyze him.

"Are you saying that the Manager isn't your friend?" Kenny asked with a smile.

Craig knew that Kenny was trying to diffuse the situation, and he didn't know whether to take the bait. He decided to humor Kenny. "Yeah, we're best pals," Craig said, rolling his eyes. "Didn't he tell you? I'm taking your place soon."

Kenny snorted. "I'm not friends with Cartman."

" _What?_ " Craig was genuinely taken aback. There were very few things that surprised Craig Tucker; he had learned to expect that life would take a shit on you on a regular basis, so at an early age he had steeled himself for anything. But this… This was just bizarre. "You're not friends with Cartman anymore?"

"No way." Kenny kicked the wall with the toe of his tattered sneaker. "Not since senior year, when I realized they were assholes, all of them: Cartman, Kyle…and obviously Stan. Self-absorbed pricks. With all the shit going on in my life, I didn't need the negativity, y'know? So I just kind of…faded out of their lives. Beats me if they even noticed."

"Probably not. Hell, I didn't notice." Craig inhaled and blew out a ring of smoke. "Took you long enough to realize they're assholes."

"What, did you hate them, too?"

"Why do you think I never hung out with you guys? You were a fucking clique, like some sort of _Mean Girls_ shit. It made me sick." He noticed Kenny staring at the ground. "You weren't that bad, though."

"Oh wow," Kenny said in mock surprise. "Thanks for the validation."

"Don't mention it. And for the record, I didn't _hate_ anybody. It was more like…disgust. Except for Cartman. That was hate. And still is."

Kenny folded his arms. "How is he already the manager of this place? Didn't he graduate college, like, a year ago?"

"Not even," Craig said bitterly. "The way I see it, karma's a bitch, only because it doesn't seem to fucking work on Eric Cartman."

"Do you know why he even came back to South Park? Considering that practically everyone else got out of here as soon as we left school."

"Heidi," Craig uttered matter-of-factly. "She wanted to be near her parents or something."

Kenny visibly recoiled at the news. "Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

" _Heidi_ is still with _Cartman_?"

"Yup."

"I can't believe this," Kenny mumbled. "After all these years of him using her…"

"I don't know," Craig said with a shrug. "I've seen them sometimes when she comes into the store. It seems like _she's_ using _him_. She asks him to do stuff, and he actually fucking does it." He took another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe she has a great pussy."

Kenny parted his lips as if he were about to say something, but then hastily closed them. Instead, he just shook his head. "I know Cartmen's using her. It's…complicated."

Craig didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say a goddamn thing. The two of them stood there quietly for a minute, the silence hanging heavy around them in the damp spring air. Craig watched Kenny fish around in the pocket of his too-big jeans, pull out his phone, and frown.

"Huh. Missed call. Do you know this number?"

Kenny passed the phone to Craig. Craig didn't know it. "I don't remember phone numbers. Let me look it up in my contacts." Craig pulled out his own phone. He had a missed call, as well, and from the same number. He showed his screen to Kenny. "Coincidence?"

Kenny shrugged. "Any chance it's Cartman fucking with us?"

"No. It isn't two-thirty yet, and like I said, whenever he's doing whatever it is he does in there, he doesn't talk to anyone."

Kenny looked at Craig and then pressed his forefinger onto his own phone. "I'm calling back. Speakerphone." He held up his phone and Craig shuffled closer.

The phone only rang a couple times before the person on the other end of the line picked up. "Hey, Kenny! Thanks for calling me back."

Kenny scrunched up his face. " _Kyle?_ "

Craig grimaced. He had to deal with Cartman, Kenny, and Kyle, all in one day. If Stan suddenly parachuted into the alley, Craig wouldn't have been surprised whatsoever.

"Yeah, hi!" Kyle greeted through the phone. "What's up, dude? How are you doing?"

Kenny turned to Craig and mouthed _"What the hell?"_ "Um, I'm good. Craig's here, too."

"Oh." Kyle sounded confused. "That's…convenient. Hey, Craig."

"Hey," Craig muttered.

"So, guys," Kyle said slowly, "I'm sure you're wondering why I called you. I know we haven't seen each other in a while, but I want to invite you to a really important event."

Craig snickered. As Kyle was talking, Kenny mimed Kyle's words, even acting out his pretentious-ass mannerisms. Kenny could be one entertaining motherfucker; that was _one_ good thing about him.

Kyle continued. "I don't know if you've heard, but Stan is getting married." He paused, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction. Craig shot a look at Kenny, whose face betrayed no emotions. Craig wasn't fooled.

"Same girl?" Craig asked.

"Yeah," Kyle confirmed. "Same girl."

Craig nudged Kenny. "Wow-that's-great," Kenny blurted out. "Good for them." Craig half-expected Kenny to accompany this statement with an eye roll or a gagging motion, but Kenny remained stone-faced.

If Kyle picked up on the sarcasm, he didn't show it. "Well, as Stan's best man, I'm in charge of throwing his bachelor party in a few weeks. I noticed recently that Stan likes talking about the old gang, and how much fun we used to have, so I thought I'd surprise him by bringing everyone together for the bachelor party, just like old times!"

"Not to burst your bubble," Craig spoke up, "but I wasn't exactly part of your 'gang.'"

"Dude, I mean _everyone_ ," Kyle explained. "All the guys we used to hang out with."

"Who's coming?" Kenny asked.

"So far, we've got Butters—"

"You're inviting _Butters_?" Kenny stifled a laugh. "To a bachelor party? Isn't that a little too…inappropriate for him?"

"Yeah, know. What can I say? Stan is being more sentimental than usual, even for Stan. He keeps bringing up funny stuff Butters used to do. I think he'd get a kick out of Butters being at the party. I just need to make sure poor Butters doesn't get corrupted by all you guys, especially Clyde."

"Clyde's coming?" Craig asked, praying internally that he had misheard. Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and Butters? Them he could deal with. But who in their right mind—besides blond coeds with empty heads and perky tits—would willingly spend time with Clyde Donovan?

"Yeah, he'll be there. Jimmy can't make it, but Token and Tweek are coming, too."

Craig's heart leapt into his throat. One of those names was just a little bit more anxiety-inducing than the other. It was actually a _lot_ more anxiety-inducing. After all these years, he really didn't need this shit. "Yeah, I don't think I'll be able to make it."

Kyle paused. "I thought you might say that. What if I told you that the whole weekend is all-expenses-paid?"

Craig and Kenny exchanged looks of interest. "All-expenses-paid?" Kenny repeated slowly.

"Two nights in Vegas at a nice hotel, plus dinners and drinks, and other activities."

Kenny's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Craig was more cautious. "Okay," Craig said, "so how are we supposed to get to Vegas?"

"If you're still in South Park, you can fly out of Denver. Frontier Airlines has forty-nine-dollar round trip tickets."

Kenny whistled. "Wow, Kyle. You did your homework. I'm impressed."

"Where are you guys getting the cash to cover all this?" Craig asked tersely.

"Stan's grandpa finally passed," Kyle replied, "and left Stan a bunch of money. Stan's using a lot of it for the wedding. It means so much to him."

Craig closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself spending an entire weekend with those losers. Would it really be worse than lounging around his house in his underwear for three days, playing outdated Xbox games and waiting for porn videos to buffer over his shitty Wi-Fi? Probably not. Plus, he could always sneak out of the hotel and hang out by himself if he got tired of everyone's bullshit.

But the most enticing thing about going to Stan's bachelor party was that he could spend a shit of money that not only didn't belong to him, but, more specifically, belonged to a douchebag. The thought of ordering fancy steaks and unlimited alcohol on Stan's dime sounded just fine to Craig. "You said this thing is in a few weeks?"

"Mm-hmm," Kyle responded. "A month from tomorrow. Friday through Sunday."

"I'm in."

Kenny's mouth dropped open. _"Seriously?"_ he mouthed.

" _Free booze,"_ Craig mouthed back.

Kenny smirked. "What the hell. I'm in, too."

"Awesome!" Kyle exclaimed. Craig cringed; he could practically hear Kyle pumping his fist in the air like a dork.

"Wait," Kenny interjected. "You said that Token and Tweek and Clyde are coming, but is there anyone else you haven't talked to yet?"

Kyle sighed. "Are you asking whether Cartman is coming?"

"Pretty much."

"I actually wanted to talk to you about that…" Kyle trailed off.

"Let me guess. You want _me_ to ask Cartman about the bachelor party."

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Because you're a pussy."

"I—"

"Because you think I'm still friends with that fatass."

Silence. "You…you're not?"

Kenny exhaled. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Kyle. I'll do it. But only if Stan pays for my plane tickets. And Craig's." Craig whistled. _Damn._ He liked aggressive Kenny.

More silence. "Alright, you have a deal. Look, I have to go now, but I'll text you guys all the details. And, Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

"Try your best to get Cartman to come, alright? As much as I hate that fat asshole, I know Stan would be bummed if he wasn't there."

"I'll try, Kyle."

"Thanks. Talk to you guys later."

After Kyle hung up, Kenny looked at Craig in shock. "Dude, did we just score a free trip to Vegas?"

Craig smiled, a real smile, for the first time in God knew how long. "Ready to fuck shit up?"

"You know it," Kenny said with a chuckle. "But not right now. We should probably get back to work, huh?"

"Wow. You've been here for an hour, and you're already the resident kiss-ass."

"Shut up." Kenny opened the door into the building. "And hurry up. You still need to explain, like, ninety-percent of my duties."

Craig dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. "Fuck you, Kenny," he murmured under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

"No, I'm coming." _Shit._ Craig needed to work on that. Especially since, for once, it looked like Kenny working here might actually be a good thing. And boy, could Craig use some more good things in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

_**[Disclaimer: I am neither the creator nor the owner of South Park. Those distinctions are held by the ineffable partnership of Trey Parker & Matt Stone.]**_

 **A/N: Thank you so much for supporting this fic! One of you requested a Cartman-focused chapter, and oh look, here it is! Fair warning, this is quite the smutty chapter... ;) Hope you enjoy, and remember to follow for updates and leave a comment with requests/feedback!**

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" _Oh, yes, Eric! YES!_ "

Cartman thrust his pelvis up and down absentmindedly. He was so used to the routine at this point that his body just resorted to muscle memory, allowing his mind to wander to all sorts of things, which, of course, didn't do his dick any favors. Who knew that thoughts about ordering a new shipment of drill bits, or comparing new menu items at Taco Bell, or almost forgetting to send the monthly check to his mom, would dampen his arousal? He had tried fantasizing during sex, but he realized that it was hard to imagine sticking his dick in some guy's asshole when everything going on around him in reality constituted a distinctly different experience—most notably, the long hair dangling in his face, and the fact that his hands were kneading two decidedly female breasts.

Fortunately for him, Heidi didn't seem to notice his mind wandering, or even the lack of passion in his eyes. It had been there originally, back when she was his first lay, and every interaction between them elicited sparks and an instant erection, his teenage body hungry for physical contact with anyone other than himself. Now, he endured their little dance, trying his hardest to find her writhing and moaning erotic, or maybe just not so goddamn annoying. Meanwhile, Heidi was having the time of her life, bucking her hips and calling out his name repeatedly. Cartman remembered when he thought the latter was the sexiest thing in the world. He still did, in a theoretical sense; the only problem was that _she_ was saying it.

After pumping away for what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes, he felt her nails dig into his shoulders, a signal he knew well: she was about to cum. He was running out of time. Before her back could arch—the sign of no return—he quickly tightened his grip on her right nipple and pinched it, yanking it towards him ferociously. She cried out in genuine pain. That did it for him.

 _"ERIC!"_ As she let out a long shudder, he felt himself releasing into her.

Heidi's body dropped down onto his, which had relaxed considerably. Their chests heaved, their breaths out of sync. This was his favorite part of the whole thing: she would lie on top of him, peaceful, vulnerable, like a delicate flower. Something he could crush, if he wanted to. Sometimes he would run his hands along her body, the soft and supple feeling of her skin never failing to astonish him. Sometimes he would wrap his arms around her and pull her closer to him, ensuring that she couldn't get up and leave.

This time, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. She turned to face him, propping herself up on her elbows, a smile on her face. "I love you," she murmured. _Fuck._ He could feel a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. She reached up to gently move a strand of sweaty hair out of his face, and, in the process, moved her lips close to his ear. "You're incredible," she whispered. A shiver traveled down his spine, not so much from her breath, but more so from her words. He closed his eyes. _I'm incredible._

If there was one thing Heidi was good for, it was making him feel like the greatest person in the world. He was partly convinced that in a post-apocalyptic situation, even if there were no food or water in sight, he could survive on her compliments alone. Those compliments were borne out of utter devotion, which attracted Cartman since the moment he started dating Heidi. Sure, their elementary school relationship had been turbulent, to say the least, but once a serendipitous school project brought them back together in high school, he knew that this time it would last. They had been different enough from their fourth-grade selves that the relationship would work, she confident enough to stand up for herself, and he so starved for attention and scared of her potential departure that he wouldn't do anything to piss her off.

Seven years later, their relationship had morphed into something that Cartman found much more terrifying. He desperately wanted to be rid of Heidi once and for all, but at the same time, the thought of losing her seemed even worse. As their relationship had progressed, Heidi's emotional strength had disintegrated, while her complacency grew, to the point where the notion of her leaving could no longer possibly be perceived as a real threat. He constantly tried to sabotage their relationship by exploiting her newfound psychological vulnerability, but she was so dependent on him at this point that no amount of name-calling, hair pulling, shoving, hitting, or kicking would deter her from creeping into bed hours after their fight, planting a trail of kisses along his neck and groping at his dick until he reluctantly complied.

He had come to face a sad truth: albeit for different reasons, they needed each other. And unless Cartman could find someone else to shower him with unconditional praise, he didn't see any way out.

…

Upon returning to work, Cartman was alarmed to discover that the owner of True-Value Hardware, who had watched over the store while Cartman was on a short vacation with Heidi in Glenwood Springs, had hired none another than Kenny McCormick to fill the open employee position. Cartman could only grin and bear it; it was because Heidi's dad was army buddies with the store's owner that Cartman had become the manager in the first place, so he wasn't really in a position to complain about the way things were done.

Seeing Kenny after five years had been…confusing. He looked scruffier than before, with tangled hair and two-day-old stubble, but he also looked healthy. Gone were the sunken eye sockets and twitching fingers. He even looked like he had some muscle mass. But most of all, Cartman was confused by what he _felt_ when he saw Kenny: joy. It was like junior year of high school all over again, before Kenny had decided he was too good for his friends, even for his best friend in the world. As soon as Cartman saw Kenny loitering at the front of the hardware store, he had a strong urge to run over there and tell some stupid joke about pussies or Jews or something, anything, just to hear Kenny's laugh again, a hearty, booming laugh that he never realized how much he missed.

Instead, Cartman walked over and shook Kenny's hand, in as professional a manner as he could muster. Kenny looked a little perturbed, but he played along. Cartman knew that he was too chickenshit to attempt any meaningful conversation with Kenny, so their relationship going forward would likely be no different from the status quo Cartman had established early on with Craig.

After he had assigned Craig the task of onboarding Kenny, and spent an irritatingly long amount of time the phone with a drill bit manufacturer, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Two short, quick vibrations. His dick twitched.

It was two o'clock.

Cartman hurriedly locked the door to his office and closed the blinds, until everyone and everything in the store was safely out of sight. He grabbed his iPad, opened Facebook, plugged in his earbuds, and plopped down at his desk. This, like sex with Heidi, was yet another routine, providing order and stability in his life—only this routine he liked very, _very_ much.

Within minutes, he had settled on which video to watch today. It was one of his favorites, shot a few years ago. That was back when Kyle still had long hair, the way Cartman liked it. Unzipping his fly, his eyes glued to the screen, he watched Kyle joking around in the water, the Jew's skinny torso glistening in the summer sun. Kyle's muscles were less defined than they were in high school, a casualty of Kyle being too short to make his college's basketball team, but Cartman didn't mind one bit. He thought Kyle looked better that way. Other than being a little taller, Kyle looked the same as he did in high school, and Cartman was grateful for that. He hated change.

Similarly, Cartman didn't look much different himself. He had lost some baby fat over the years, but the change was fairly inconsequential. Heidi had attempted several times to suggest that Cartman start working out, but, much like his mom, she had quickly learned to give up on that pipe dream. The only noticeable difference in Cartman's appearance was his facial hair, a short mustache and beard that he kept well-groomed enough to befit the manager of a hardware store. When he had started growing out his facial hair during college, he was annoyed that he had to make time every day to trim it, but he ultimately decided to keep it once he realized that Heidi, who found it exceedingly scratchy but wouldn't dare say anything about it, started kissing him less. For that reason alone, he endured the extra five minutes added to his morning routine.

As Cartman watched the video, he pumped his hand up and down, fighting the urge to close his eyes as he felt a wave of pleasure overcome him. He had to keep his eyes fixated on Kyle, at least until the best part of the video. He jacked up the volume and kept pumping, keeping a steady rhythm. Video Kyle was laughing at whoever was behind the camera. Cartman's hand started to move faster, as Video Kyle turned around and bent over, pretending to moon the camera. Cartman's eyes widened, and then immediately shut, as he stifled a grunt and grabbed a tissue from his desk to catch everything spilling out of him.

After he finished cleaning up, he looked at his watch. That was just round one; he still had time for another video. He started scouting Kyle's Facebook page and found another one of his favorites, which featured Kyle playing a game of H.O.R.S.E. with his college buddies. Cartman was aroused merely by the sight of the thumbnail, which was zoomed in on a very sweaty Kyle. Cartman took a five-minute breather before pressing play and starting round two.

Right as round two was finished, Cartman's focus was interrupted by three slow knocks on his office door. He froze. _Who the_ fuck _would bug me right now?_ He zipped up his fly in a flash and locked his iPad before heading over to the window, peering between two blinds. He found himself staring directly into Kenny's face.

"Shit!" Cartman yelped, jumping back. Kenny just shook his head, looking at Cartman how one might look at a three-legged dog who just fell over. Cartman steeled his nerves and opened the door a few inches. "What do you want, _Keenny_?" he asked impatiently, holding out the vowel in Kenny's name a little too long, just like he used to. "I'm kind of busy right now."

Kenny's face betrayed no emotions. "Cut the crap. I know what you're doing in there."

Cartman's cheeks flushed, but he quickly regained composure, his eyebrows drawing together. "Good. So you know I'm working hard at my goddamn job."

"Just let me in, man. It's important."

Cartman sighed and swung open the door all the way. "Fine. But make it quick. Remember, you only have until the end of the day to finish your employee training." He sat back down at his desk, folding his arms over his iPad protectively.

Kenny slipped into Cartman's armchair, casually threading his hands behind his head. "I love it when you talk manager to me."

"Kenny—"

"I'm joking." Kenny's face got serious again. "Look, I know you're supposed to be my boss, but for right now, can you just be Eric Cartman, the fatass I went to school with for too many years?"

Cartman swallowed down the lump in his throat. He thought Kenny was going to say _"Eric Cartman, my friend,"_ but that didn't happen. When he saw Kenny at his door, he had experienced a momentary flicker of hope that maybe everything would go back to the way it used to be, the way it was supposed to be. With one single sentence, Kenny had wiped away any possibility that he hoped for the same thing.

Kenny cleared his throat and leaned forward to rest his clasped hands on the desk. "Stan's getting married."

"And?" Cartman raised one eyebrow. "I'm supposed to care?"

"I don't give a shit what you do. Kyle's throwing Stan a bachelor party in Vegas next month, and he wanted me to invite you."

It took all of Cartman's willpower to prevent his entire head from turning beet red. "Kahl wants me to the come to the party?"

"That's not what I said. You can guess how Kyle feels about you coming. He just wants to make Stan happy."

Cartman snorted. "Why would I do Stan any favors?"

"You're not. You're doing Kyle a favor. I thought you would be into that."

"Into that?" Cartman forced a laugh. "Please, like I want to spend any more time with the Jew than he wants to spend with me."

Kenny locked eyes with Cartman. In that moment, it was as if Kenny were ten feet tall, his eyes two massive swimming pools, blue from too much chlorine, in which Cartman was drowning. It made him feel small and insignificant. "Cartman, let's cut to the chase," Kenny said, his voice quiet. "We both know how this conversation is going to end. You're going to act like it's such a chore to go to this thing, and then you'll decide at the last second to go, as an act of benevolence, and you'll pat yourself on the back for being such a kind and caring friend. And then I'll leave, and you'll continue where you left off, fantasizing about Kyle."

Cartman was caught off guard. His face instantly turned beet-fucking-red this time. "You waltz in here like you're doing something nice," he said through gritted teeth, "but meanwhile you're planning a character assassination."

"It's not character assassination if it's true. Come on, you're like an open book. You come in here for half an hour every single day at the same exact time, and close the door and tell everyone to leave you alone? Hmm, I wonder what you could _possibly_ be doing in here."

Cartman leapt up from his chair. "Listen to me, you piece of shit," he snarled, trying to tower over Kenny as menacingly as possible. "I've been with the same woman for seven years. I have a picture of her on my fucking desk. If there's anyone I'm fantasizing about, it's her, got it?"

Kenny was unfazed. "To be honest, I couldn't care less who or what you do in your little fantasy world."

"Good. Because I don't need to take any shit from my subordinates, especially not from you."

Kenny stood up. He was as tall as Cartman. "I _do_ care about who you fuck over in the real world."

"Well, luckily for you, I'm not fucking over anyone."

"Yes, you are. You know you are. If you don't, you must be completely delusional." Cartman watched Kenny walk out, then pivot at the door. "And if you decide to go to Stan's party, you better not fuck over Kyle, too." Within a couple seconds, Kenny was out of sight, leaving the room cold and silent; he hadn't even bothered to slam the door on his way out.

It wasn't until Kenny was gone that Cartman realized how fast his heart was beating. He couldn't help replaying Kenny's words in his head, over and over, until they became imprinted in his mind like a mantra. _You better not fuck over Kyle. You better not fuck over Kyle. You better not fuck over Kyle._ Cartman had no idea how he would possibly "fuck over" Kyle, certainly not in the way he was supposedly "fucking over" Heidi.

His eyes darted down to the photograph of Heidi on his desk, taken during the summer break before college, back when their relationship was somewhat stable and, at times, even romantic. He had taken the photo at Stark's Pond, when Heidi dangled her feet into the water, laughing at some inside joke Cartman referenced. He had managed to snap a picture at just the right time, catching Heidi with her eyes closed, her head leaning back, the wind sweeping her bangs to one side. She looked happy. Not post-sex happy, but _real_ happy. Whenever someone visiting his office decided to comment on the photo, he would mention how beautiful Heidi looked in that moment, by way of explaining why he had chosen that photo in particular. That was a question that nobody ever asked, but it made no difference, because his answer was merely for his own benefit. If he could trick himself into reading something cute and innocent into it, maybe he would forget the real reason he loved that photo so much, a photo proving that he, Eric Cartman, had made his girlfriend laugh, a laugh like tinkling bells, a laugh that swelled his ego every time he heard it—or looked at that photograph.

Cartman chuckled under his breath. "Stupid Kenny," he murmured, caressing the picture frame. Cartman wasn't fucking anyone over. He was amazing, and Heidi was lucky to have him. She told him that nearly every day. He also heard it from his mom, every time he and Heidi went over for dinner, and there was no way that two people who knew him so well could be lying to him. If anyone was delusional, it was Kenny.

Pulling out his iPad, Cartman debated whether or not to continue watching the video of Kyle shooting hoops. He decided against it. Staring at the still of Kyle mid-shot, Kyle's blurry hair jutting out in all directions, Cartman suddenly felt a jolt of fear run through his veins. He was used to seeing Video Kyle, small, two-dimensional, acting out familiar motions, but seeing Real Life Kyle was a different story. Cartman had no idea what he would do if he found himself face-to-face with the ruddy-haired object of his workplace fantasies. He knew that whipping his dick out was off the table, but beyond that inference, he had no clue how to proceed. Should he make small talk? Make some sort of tired remark about Jews?

What he did know was that despite his dread and confusion, he couldn't go on like this for much longer, his libido subsisting totally on Video Kyle. This was one of those moments, like freezing himself on Mount Elbert, or pulling a gun on the President of FOX, or figuring out how to kiss Heidi with tongue for the first time, when Cartman needed to grow a pair and just go for it.

Before he could change his mind, he grabbed his phone and typed up a message to Kyle. He still had Kyle's number after all these years. He wasn't sure if it was the right number anymore, but he could never bring himself to delete it.

 _"Send me the info for stans party. Ill be there."_

He hit send, still hearing Kenny's words. _You better not fuck over Kyle._ Kenny didn't know how wrong he was; Cartman couldn't fuck over Kyle, when Kyle had complete control over him. The irony was that Kyle had no idea how much power he wielded over his fat ex-friend. And Cartman sincerely hoped he would never find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**_[Disclaimer: I am neither the creator nor the owner of South Park. Those distinctions are held by the ineffable partnership of Trey Parker & Matt Stone.]_**

 **A/N: ANNOUNCEMENT—This fic is now on AO3! Feel free to read it over there if you prefer.**

 **Glad you all enjoyed exploring the depths of Cartman's and Craig's psyches—now it's time for Kyle! For any of you especially interested in Craig and Tweek, fear not! There will be LOADS of Creek interaction throughout this story. Even though it only takes place over 3 days, a lot happens, so it's a slow burn...**

 **As always, I would so appreciate any feedback you have in the comment section, even if it's super short :)**

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Kyle was overwhelmed. He had never visited Vegas before, and he hadn't expected such a dazzling display of lights, smells, and sounds. It was like some of the places he frequented as a kid, like Whistlin' Willy's and Casa Bonita, only with even more of a sensory-overload—and slot machines. Lots and lots of slot machines, everywhere he turned. Stan kept trying to coax him into trying his hand at one, but he kept hearing his mom's admonition resonating in his head.

 _"Make sure you don't do any gambling, Kyle! Remember what happened to your dad when we were visiting my cousins in Atlantic City? Addictive personalities run in the family, bubbe."_

As a twenty-three-year-old, Kyle still took many of his mom's recommendations and concerns to heart, no matter how paranoid they were. After watching Stan waltz right up to the first slots machine he saw and win a hundred dollars after only fifteen minutes, Kyle vowed that he would take advantage of this weekend to do something crazy, something of which his mom wouldn't approve. Not that she needed to find that out. Now that they had already been in Vegas for a few hours, Kyle had precious little time to determine the exact nature of that crazy something. He certainly had some things that he had fantasized about doing for a long time, but maybe those things were _too_ crazy…

"Dude, where did you say the spa was?"

Stan's question snapped Kyle out his thoughts. He perused the lobby's exits and spotted two grand doors opening up to a plush carpeted hallway, next to the concierge desk. He had always assumed Vegas was kind of trashy, but if he learned one thing from this trip thus far, it was that Vegas hotels were really, really nice.

"That way," Kyle said, pointing at the glimmering golden doors. "Conference room B."

Stan wrinkled his nose. "The spa is in a conference room?"

"Uh, no. They overbooked massages for two o'clock so they're putting the, um, spillover clients in the conference rooms."

To lure Stan into the conference room, Kyle had successfully convinced Stan that he had booked them both massages, a totally-not-gay activity to kick off what Stan kept referring to as their "Best Bros Bachelor Bonanza." Because Stan had hyped up the whole weekend as a bonding experience, Kyle felt nervous about Stan's reaction to seeing a room full of dudes, all there to partake in the Bachelor Bonanza. Kyle certainly would have preferred having Stan all to himself for the weekend, but he kept telling himself that he was just projecting his own wishes onto his best friend. It was because he was Stan's best friend that he knew exactly what Stan would want for a bachelor party, and inviting all the guys from South Park was the right move.

Fortunately, Stan bought Kyle's claim, and he started heading for the golden doors. As Kyle glanced around the lobby, looking for any stragglers who might bump into them on the way to the room and ruin the surprise, he caught sight of something worse: Wendy Testaburger, waiting in line at the concierge.

Kyle grabbed Stan by the shoulder and pulled him back. "Stan, maybe you should go to the bathroom before the massage."

"It's cool. I don't have to go."

"Yeah, but it'll be a long massage," Kyle pointed out. "And you drank, like, three of those complimentary mimosas on the plane."

Stan nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. Give me a few minutes and I'll meet you at the conference room."

Kyle gave him a thumbs-up and waited for Stan's back to turn before he scurried off to the concierge.

Before he even got there, Wendy noticed him. She looked irritated, to say the least. "What are _you_ doing here?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

At first, nothing came out of his mouth. Kyle was so struck by what he saw; somehow, after a six-hour flight, Wendy still looked put-together, her hair tucked up into a neat bun and her dark jeans clinging to her curvy thighs. It took everything in him not to blurt out a compliment on her outfit, or her makeup, or even just her very presence. What made it easier was Wendy's glare. She was great at making you feel like a million bucks, but she was even better at making you feel like a complete idiot.

"I could ask you the same thing," Kyle remarked.

That wasn't what Wendy wanted to hear. She pulled him aside. "Kyle," she hissed, "please tell me that you and the goons aren't staying at this hotel."

Wendy hadn't received the news too well when Kyle told her about his plans for Stan's bachelor party. She thought that Stan had matured during college, and that seeing his childhood pals would make him regress back to his teenage self. Luckily for Stan, Wendy hadn't called the shots in his life since middle school.

"Yeah, we are," Kyle said, suddenly defensive. "What's wrong with that?"

Wendy narrowed her eyes. "Seriously? What's wrong with that is that _we're_ staying here. I told you that _weeks_ ago."

Kyle was about to deny it, when he remembered exactly what she was talking about. She had brought up her plans for the bachelorette party a couple months ago, when they were sitting at one of their favorite Greenwich Village cafés, sipping lattes and debating flower arrangements—in other words, a typical Saturday afternoon for the two of them, the best man and the maid of honor. He always felt a little emasculated after spending hours poring over wedding magazines, but Stan had enlisted his help in planning the wedding, and Kyle was nothing if not a responsible and dependable friend. In fact, Kyle ended up taking immense pleasure in checking off items on his list of wedding-related responsibilities, a list that constantly expanded as Stan grew lazier and Kyle, in typical fashion, grew more and more enthusiastic about cataloguing every aspect of the wedding in flowcharts and color-coded spreadsheets. At least, that was the excuse he gave to Stan when Stan asked him why he was so willing to work as a wedding planner for no pay. Of course, that Kyle had grown more and more enthusiastic about Wendy, his co-planner, was a side note that didn't need to be mentioned out loud.

At this moment, Kyle was feeling more embarrassed than enthusiastic. "I'm sorry, okay? I guess when I was making plans, I had forgotten you booked this place."

" _And_ you decided not to tell me about said plans."

"I didn't decide not to," he replied, his face coloring. "I just forgot to."

"Whatever," she said, brushing him off. Suddenly, she got up close to his face, so close that he could almost feel her breath. "Just make sure you guys stay out of our way. It's my job to make sure this weekend is all about Bebe, and the last thing I need is for her bachelorette party to be overshadowed by a bunch of belligerent assholes throwing cocktail umbrellas and screaming at women to take their tops off."

"Hey, need I remind you that that happened at _your_ after-the-prom party?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Please. Like it was my fault that you all decided to show up completed drunk off your asses on peppermint Schnapps."

"At least you should've known that yelling at Clyde for landing a cocktail umbrella down your shirt would only encourage everyone even more."

Kyle hoped that the memory would make Wendy crack a smile, but instead she just shook her head. "I hope for your sake that Clyde isn't the same guy he was five years ago. Because if anything, _anything_ happens that ruins this weekend for Bebe, so help me God, I'll have your ass."

Honestly, Kyle didn't mind the sound of that so much. But he didn't need to make Wendy any angrier than she already was. He took her hand in his. "Wendy, I promise, I'll keep the guys as far away from Bebe's party as possible. I know how hard you've worked on planning this."

Finally, Wendy's mouth curved into somewhat of a smile. "Good. Now get out of here, before Stan's sees me. You know how he is. If he finds out Bebe's here, he'll want to follow her around like a puppy."

Kyle looked back at Stan, who was still standing in line outside the men's room. He still had enough time to run to the conference room, and maybe even check in on the guys.

Without any warning, Wendy wrapped her arms about him. He felt his muscles stiffen. "Have fun," she said softly. "This may be Stan's party, but you of all people deserve some time to let loose." Within a few seconds, she was gone, making her way back to the concierge desk.

Kyle's body still felt warm in her absence. He shook off the sensation and briskly set off for the conference room.

As soon as he got to the door embossed with "CONFERENCE ROOM B" in gold font, he had to take a beat and prep himself for what awaited him inside. Besides Butters, who he chatted with every few months over Skype, he hadn't spoken to any of these people since the summer before college for longer than five minutes. Visits home during breaks had been brief and strictly family-only, which was partly his mom's doing but mostly due to his lack of sentimental attachment to the backwards, one-horse town he had called home for so many years.

After running through all the possible things that could happen when he opened the door, including Cartman slinging a slew of vile phrases his way, he took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. Immediately he was confronted with seven faces, about half of which yelled "SURPRISE!"

"You guys!" Kyle cried, glaring at the group. "You're _all_ supposed to yell 'surprise' when Stan comes in!"

Butters hung his head dolefully. "I tried to tell them that, but I don't think they listened."

Kyle kept glaring at everyone. They all looked back at him with at least a modicum of a smile, except for Butters, who looked guilty despite having done nothing wrong; Craig, who looked, well, like Craig; and Cartman, whose expression could best be described as one of mild constipation.

Tweek twitched. "Oh, God! Are we in the wrong room? Jesus, what if we're in the wrong hotel?!"

"You're fine, Tweek," Kyle said impatiently. "Look, Stan's going to be here any second. You guys need to get it together. Clyde, why is your shirt open?"

Clyde looked down at his exposed chest with pride, as if he were sporting an epic six-pack. He was not. He wiggled his eyebrows. "Like what you see, Broflovski?"

"No, I do not. Button it up, now."

"But it's a bachelor party!" Clyde whined. "If I can't let it all hang out, what's the point?"

Token shot him a look. "Come on, man. Stan doesn't need to see your misshapen nipples. You should save 'em for the ladies."

Satisfied with this argument, Clyde—whom Kyle was beginning to suspect had already partaken in all that his room's minibar had to offer—finally buttoned his shirt.

Kyle was about to head back into the hallway when something caught his eye. His fingers curled into fists. "Who the hell did that to the cake?"

Everyone peered at Stan's cake on the table. Someone had lifted off a portion of the frosting with their finger and, in doing so, shaped the "U" in "SURPRISE" into a penis and testicles.

"Who do you think," Kenny deadpanned, cocking his head in Cartman's direction.

"Ay, don't snitch on me!" Cartman exclaimed, just a little too loudly. "I'm your superior, and you have to respect my authorit—"

"Not here, I don't," Kenny fired back. Cartman's eyes darted to Kyle, as if only now noticing Kyle's presence, and he went silent. "What, has the Hardware Wizard lost his magical middle-management powers of intimidation? Should I give you some time to forge a new True-Value vest and nametag before we go into battle?" Kenny and Craig smirked at each other.

"Listen," Kyle interjected, blinking in bewilderment, "whatever's going on, just make sure the cake doesn't look like that when Stan gets here. And for the love of God, Clyde, stop burping up beer. I can smell it from here." Clyde looked a little nauseous for a second, but then he swallowed deeply and grinned back at Kyle.

Kyle didn't want to stay around in the room any longer, lest he might see something else that could potentially ruin everything. Without another word, he exited the room.

After another minute, Stan came walking down the hall. Kyle felt a small rush of excitement. No matter what lay inside that room when they opened the door, at least he had seven people to show for all his hard work and planning, seven people about whom Stan had waxed poetic for months. "Shall we?" Kyle asked, beckoning Stan over.

Stan flashed his best friend a winning smile. "Let's do it." Kyle reached over and, bracing himself for the worst, swung open the door.

…

"Gee, fellers, this party is great!"

Kyle couldn't help but grin at Butters' enthusiasm for their little get-together. As soon as Stan arrived, Butters had helped himself to a glass of champagne from the bottle he had kept hidden for Kyle in a cooler under the table, and it was soon evident that Butters was a lightweight. He hiccupped and raised his glass in Stan's direction.

"Pace yourself, dude," Stan said with a chuckle. "It's only the middle of the day."

Cartman nodded solemnly. "And we still have Saturday and Sunday, too. If you keep this up, Butters, you'll be dead by Sunday morning."

"Cartman!" Stan scolded him. "What's your problem?"

" _He's_ his problem," Kyle grumbled. "You haven't seen him in years, so maybe you forgot what he's like."

"You haven't seen me either, Jew," Cartman reminded him. "For all you know, I'm a new man." Craig snorted so hard that champagne dribbled out of his mouth. Cartman, sitting next to him, visibly recoiled. "Ew. Weak."

"If you're a new man, then I'm a new woman," Craig retorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Please, Craig. Nobody wants to hear about your transsexual lifestyle."

Craig glared at Kyle across the table. "This is what you wanted for Stan's party? An overbearing dumbass?"

Kyle wanted to bury his hand in his hands, or, even better, get up and leave the room, but he had to put on a brave face for Stan. They had only been together for half an hour, and Kyle was already _this close_ to laying into Cartman, but he had to remind himself why Cartman was even invited in the first place. The look on Stan's face when he had seen everyone gathered around the table, and the way he had hugged (a very reluctant) Cartman made this whole thing worth it for Kyle. If Kyle could put up with Cartman for almost fifteen years, he could do it again for three days.

"Can we all just cool it for a second?" Kyle pleaded, standing up, his knuckles white from gripping the table. "Look, I know most of us aren't best buds anymore—"

"Best buds?" Cartman interjected, one eyebrow raised. "That sounds a little gay."

"That's rich, coming from you," Kenny said.

"Are you saying I'm gay?"

"Are you saying you're not?"

Stan slammed his hand on the table. "Guys! Kyle put a lot of work into this weekend to make sure we all have a good time, but that won't happen if you keep fighting like a bunch of ten-year-olds!"

Everyone was silent. Kyle always admired his best friend's ability to whip a room into shape. He was once pretty decent himself at giving inspirational speeches, but he knew he was a little too aggressive and moralizing for his speeches to make as much of an impact. He had tried to get Stan to join the debate team in college, but Stan just laughed at him and said something along the lines of, "dude, I'm not Cartman." Kyle had wanted to point out that by virtue of his presence on the debate team, Stan was comparing _him_ to Cartman, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to fuel any of the weird comparisons people had been making between him and Cartman his entire life.

"Stan's right," Token chimed in. "We're here to have fun, not kill each other."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Cartman muttered, still eyeing Kenny.

Stan rolled his eyes. "Fine, but I'd rather not kill anyone, if that's okay with you, Cartman." Cartman folded his arms and mumbled something incoherent under his breath. "Good. Now, Kyle, what's next on the agenda?"

Kyle's eyes lit up. The one thing he loved more than planning and organizing was _talking_ about planning and organizing. "So," he started, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, "tonight we're going on a dinner cruise!"

Butters gasped. "I've never been on a cruise before!"

"Aren't we in the middle of the desert?" Craig asked, confused. "Where are we supposed to take a cruise?"

"Lake Mead," Kyle explained. "I rented a massive Chevy that can hold nine people, so we can be there in under an hour."

"Do we have enough time to take a nap?" Tweek burst out.

Kyle's brow furrowed. "You want to sleep?" He eyed Tweek's twitching hand, the one that wasn't holding a venti Starbucks cup.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted!" More twitching.

"Sure, Tweek, you can nap," Kyle conceded. "We have a few hours of free time. We just need to make sure we're all down in the lobby by 5:30."

"That gives me just enough time to check out anyone who might be hanging out by the pool," Clyde said slyly, running his hands through his gelled hair. His previously messy locks were tamed into one of those short-on-the-sides, long-on-top cuts that every frat boy in America was sporting. Kyle had to admit it was a good look for Clyde, though it made him seem even more douchey.

After sharing their various plans for the afternoon, the guys went their separate ways. While most of them exited the room within a minute of one another, Kenny lingered, wordlessly depositing the remnants of everyone's midday decadence into the trash can while Stan showered Kyle with praise for orchestrating such an epic surprise. Kyle was so enjoying basking in his friend's enthusiasm that he failed to notice what Kenny was doing until Stan had left the room. "You don't have to do that," Kyle said weakly, noticing as he said it that Kenny had already cleaned up everything.

Kenny slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked out. "It's fine."

Kyle hurried out after him, speed-walking until he fell in step with Kenny, right as Kenny entered the casino. It was the only route from the lobby to the elevators. Kyle couldn't help but marvel at the genius marketing tactics of Las Vegas hotel architects.

"So, Kenny, what's up with you and Cartman? Did you guys stay in touch after high school?"

Kenny kept looking straight ahead. "Nope."

"Oh. You just seemed so…comfortable talking to him back there. Just like old times."

"He's my employer," Kenny said with a shrug. "I see him every day, nine to five. Guess I'm used to dealing with his crap."

Kyle's eyes widened. Sure, he hadn't kept tabs on the personal lives of Kenny and Cartman after high school, but for some reason he expected that he would have already found out something like that. "You…work for him?

"Yeah, at the hardware store downtown."

"Wow," Kyle said, shaking his head sympathetically. "It must suck to have Cartman as a boss. I'm so sorry, dude."

Kenny sniffed. "We're not friends anymore, Kyle. You don't have to pretend like you care."

"But I _do_ care," Kyle replied, a bit taken aback by what he interpreted as a hostile tone.

"Right, of course," Kenny said sarcastically. "You're Kyle Broflovski. After all these years, you're still trying to save everyone. Still trying to save the world."

Kyle stopped in his tracks. "Okay, what's your deal? What did I do to piss you off?"

Kenny sighed and stopped alongside Kyle. "You didn't do anything. I just don't feel like playing this game."

"What game?"

"The one where we pretend we're still close. I don't know if you remember, but we barely talked during senior year. It was always you, Stan, and Cartman laughing it up in the cafeteria, laughing at stupid shit that nobody else understood. By the end of the year, Butters was the only one who could stand you guys."

Kyle frowned. " _You_ were the one who was too busy! We tried to hang out with you, but every time we invited you to do stuff with us, you said you were working!"

"You thought I ditched you for my job?" Kenny laughed. "That was true senior year. But junior year? While you guys were sitting around playing video games after school, I was over at Craig's getting fucked up."

Kyle didn't know how to respond to that. He considered Kenny one of his best friends from high school; but then, why hadn't he known that Kenny and Craig were hanging out so much? Whatever the reason, it made Kyle feel shitty. "So you were ditching us for _Craig_?"

"Who else was I going to ditch you for? Craig was available, since he didn't want to hang out with Clyde and those guys anymore. Plus, he had enough money to buy cigarettes and booze."

"My point is that you didn't have to ditch us, period," Kyle said, bristling.

"I ditched you guys because you turned into self-absorbed pricks."

Kyle blanched. "I could say the same about you!"

Kenny put up his hands. "Calm down, Kyle. I didn't come to Vegas to argue with you. I just want to enjoy this weekend in peace."

Kyle felt ready to explode. "Your idea of a peaceful weekend involves walking up to me and insulting me out of nowhere?!"

"No," Kenny said calmly. Kenny's lack of emotion made Kyle feel like a raving lunatic in comparison. He loosened his clenched fists and tried to mentally slow his heart rate. Kenny was looking at him curiously, as if he were pitching a fit in the middle of the casino floor. "I was just explaining why you don't need to pander to me all weekend. I'm not mad at you. In fact, you occupy very little space in my regular thoughts. I'm just not interested in having heart-to-heart talks with someone who spent our teen years feeding Stan Marsh's illusion that the world revolves around him, and doing nothing to stop Cartman from—" Kenny stopped abruptly and looked down at the floor.

"From what?" Kyle demanded.

"Nothing." Kenny still wouldn't make eye contact. "I'm tired. I think I'll do what's Tweek's doing. Catch you later."

Kyle watched him amble across the casino floor, wondering how this conversation had taken such a strange turn. He really wanted to follow up with Kenny later, but he realized that might be futile. He shut his eyes and continued his calm-down tactics, reminding himself not to let his tenacity morph into fixation, a trap to which he frequently fell prey.

As he started heading back to the casino, he thought about the rest of the guests at Stan's party weekend. Besides Kenny, everyone seemed cool. Butters was still just as friendly as he had always been. Token, Clyde, Tweek, and Craig didn't seem to be holding any particular grudges against Kyle. Cartman appeared to be in a bad mood, but that wasn't surprising. What _was_ surprising, however, was that Cartman was wearing a dress shirt and pleated pants, something that was oddly formal for a small surprise gathering with cheap cake in a conference room and that was just plain odd for someone like Cartman. Kyle realized he didn't know if that was true anymore, since he hadn't seen Cartman in so long. Hell, Cartman didn't even update his Facebook or Instagram pages. Once in a blue moon, a picture posted by Heidi would show up on Kyle's feed, but even then, snapshots of Cartman were buried between photos of flower bouquets and omelets, captioned with the likes of "Look what my man made me! #luckiestgirl." For all Kyle knew, Cartman and Heidi could be married with a bunch of kids, Cartman could be the owner of True-Value Hardware, and they could be one of the richest and happiest families in South Park.

Kyle shook his head in disbelief. Despite the unpleasantness he felt when he thought about talking to Cartman, his curiosity got the better of him. He _had_ to catch up with Cartman tonight.

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 ***This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!***

 **Want to message me? PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!**


	4. Chapter 4

Since I know so many of you love Craig, here's another Craig-focused chapter! Thank you all so much for your feedback so far; your comments and readership truly make my day. Keep it coming! :)

(Also, I want to note that any misogynist/sexist/homophobic language used in this fic does not reflect my own personal views in any way!)

~Enjoy~

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Craig rode the elevator silently. He heard Clyde, Token, and Tweek talking about something of no interest to him, so he tuned them out as best he could. It dawned on him that Kenny, Butters, and the fatass weren't in the elevator with them, but he didn't dwell on that fact too long, as it, too, did not interest him. Instead, he simply stared ahead vacantly, looking at his warped reflection in the shiny brass walls.

When he had arrived at the hotel earlier in the day, his room was empty. He only knew it was his because Kyle had texted him the room number, and he had no idea who was going to occupy the room's other twin bed. He knew Kyle wouldn't be stupid enough to put Tweek in the bed, and Kyle certainly wouldn't let Stan out of his sight, but Craig didn't have any other information to narrow down the field of contenders. He had considered waiting in the room for his bunkmate to arrive, but then he received a text from a bored and lonely Kenny instructing him to come down to the conference room, so he did that instead.

Now, as Craig heard the elevator chatter around him turn to the topic of room assignments, he recognized that it might behoove him to start listening, as he still didn't know which of these assholes he was going to be living with for three days.

"Who's in 1214?" Token asked, squinting at his phone.

"Me," Tweek piped up. Craig internally breathed a sigh of relief.

Token smiled. "Cool. It'll be just like spring break in Cabo."

Craig blinked. _Spring break in Cabo?_ He imagined Clyde, Token, Tweek, and the rest of their little group partying it up on the beach with a bunch of drunk girls. That seemed exactly like the kind of thing they _would_ do over spring break. The thought gave Craig a weird feeling, which he chalked up to disgust. Really, he felt thankful that he hadn't been invited to such a generic douchebag vacation.

His thoughts were interrupted by Clyde's hand waving in front of his face. "Earth to Craig! Are you in 1215?"

Craig nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. I just said I'm in 1215."

Craig's first instinct was to groan, but upon further introspection, he recognized that he was lucky. It could have been worse. It could have been Cartman. As long as adult Clyde didn't snore as much as teenage Clyde, Craig could manage this living arrangement for one weekend.

Once the elevator reached the twelfth floor, Tweek and Token decided to head right back down to the bar for some snacks before unpacking. It was a small victory, but Craig was relieved not to have to endure their presence during the long walk down the hallway to their respective rooms.

Craig and Clyde started unpacking their suitcases as soon as they got to 1215. Clyde's suitcase was massive; he had brought so much stuff that he could have easily lasted in Vegas for two weeks without doing laundry. There were countless pairs of ripped jeans and colorful patterned swim trunks, along with a fancy blow-dryer and hair products galore. Craig eyed the growing pile of junk on Clyde's bed with detached disdain.

While they unpacked, Clyde made continuous attempts at small talk, ranging from how much he was going to miss his roommate's dog back home, to a play-by play of the turbulence on his flight from Miami, to some sports statistics that Craig didn't bother to follow. After a good ten minutes of monologuing, Clyde suddenly snapped his suitcase shut and vaulted over his bed, coming face-to-face with Craig from the other side of Craig's suitcase. "Okay, what's up?" he inquired, staring Craig dead in the eye.

Craig ignored this blatant invasion of his personal space and continued methodically unpacking his clothes. "Nothing. I'm busy doing something here."

"Bullshit." Clyde gingerly picked up a pair of Craig's plain black swim trunks, eyeing them with obvious contempt. "You're uncomfortable talking to me. And I want to know why."

Craig looked up at Clyde, who was still staring at him intently. He had forgotten Clyde's penchant for directness. Clyde had always been a fan of confrontation, especially when he had a little liquor in him. Craig could be blunt, but he avoided overly confrontational conversations like the plague—and, unlike Kenny, he lacked the cojones to approach such conversations armed with statements dripping with sarcasm. "I'm fine," Craig answered. "I just don't have anything to say to you."

Clyde exhaled deeply and flopped down on his own bed. "Remember when we were like fifteen, and we used to hang out in my room watching streams of those cam girls playing video games?"

"Yeah." Craig did remember. There was a time in his life when he used to spend a lot of time at Clyde's house: weekly sleepovers, dinners with Clyde's family, hours spent in front of the flat-screen playing games on whatever new and expensive console had just been released. Sometimes the likes of Token, Tweek, Jimmy Valmer, Jason White, and Kevin Stoley would join the two boys, but they were just a rotating cast of supporting characters, never fully penetrating the bond Craig and Clyde had cultivated over the years. It was a simpler time, before all the shit with Tweek, before Kenny taught Craig how to smoke behind the gym, before Token's house became the new hub for sleepovers and gaming…and for Clyde's friendship.

Yes, Craig remembered, but it didn't do him any good to remember.

Clyde sat up on the bed and smiled at Craig wistfully. "That seems like forever ago, huh?"

Craig just nodded.

"Come on, man." Clyde grabbed the black swim trunks and tossed them to Craig. "Let's go down to the pool."

"Why?"

"For the chicks, duh!" Clyde rifled through his pile of trunks until he found a baby pink pair covered in a tropical leaf design. Craig was mildly impressed; you had to be pretty damn secure in your masculinity to wear those. Clyde started unbuttoning his shirt and pants, right there in front of Craig, lacking any shame whatsoever. "We can grab some margaritas and give 'em to the girls with the best titties."

Craig lifted up the black trunks, feeling slightly uneasy. He expected Clyde to continue changing, but instead Clyde paused, watching Craig with a look of concern. _Dammit,_ Craig thought. If anyone could read Craig's face, even after all these years, it was Clyde.

"A little rusty?" Clyde suggested with a slight smirk.

"You could say that."

"I'm sure I can help you get back in the game. I'm a great wingman." In one deft motion, Clyde pulled his white briefs down to his ankles. Craig tried not to look, but it was hard not to notice the monstrosity dangling between Clyde's legs. _No wonder the motherfucker is so confident,_ Craig thought, stifling a snort.

Clyde seemed oblivious to Craig's eyes boring a hole in his junk, casually slipping off his underwear and putting on his trunks. "So, how long has it been?"  
"What?"

"I just wanna know what we're working with here. When was the last time you got laid?" Craig didn't say anything. Clyde rolled his eyes. "Seriously, bro, just spill it. I know all kinds of weird shit about you, remember? We had fucking dick swordfights when we were kids. It's not like anything you tell me now will be, like, TMI or something."

"I don't know," Craig said reluctantly. "A couple of years ago, maybe?"

Clyde's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. " _Years?_ Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

"Well shit. This is a bigger deal than I thought." Clyde folded his arms. "Get those trunks on and let's go. We don't want any of the other guys to get to the hot chicks first."

As Clyde walked around the room grabbing his wallet and phone, Craig started undressing. Once Clyde was ready, he raised his eyebrows at Craig, looking impressed. "Look at you. You went and got fit."

Craig looked down at his body. It looked ordinary to him. Skinny, sure, but ordinary. "If you say so."

"I can actually kind of see your abs," Clyde remarked. He grabbed a fleshy part of his own abdomen between his thumb and forefinger and jiggled it. "Ugh, if I don't do something about this, I'm gonna turn into Cartman soon. For some reason, I still haven't lost the extra pizza-and-beer weight from college."

"Maybe you need to stop eating pizza and beer," Craig deadpanned.

Clyde grinned. "Now there's the Craig I missed." He headed for the door, beckoning Craig. "How do you stay so thin?"

"Chain-smoking."

"Good one," Clyde said with a chuckle.

Craig hadn't meant for that to be a joke, but he didn't clarify.

As they exited the room, they failed to notice Tweek walking down the hallway at the same time. Craig tried to dodge Tweek's body, managing to avoid slamming into his torso, but nevertheless they collided. In the aftermath, Craig froze. He instantly felt a warm spot on the underside of his arm, where his body and Tweek's body had touched. For a split second, Craig's mind flashed back to one particular memory: the South Park High football field, early-morning dew dampening his wooly blanket, surrounded by bags of chips and bundles of discarded clothing. The long, painful cuts on his arm that came a few days later were mere scars now, faded over the years into pale horizontal creases in his flesh, but the fleeting sensation of Tweek's skin on his own felt exactly the same as it did six years ago.

Tweek evidently noticed Craig's reaction, and his face turned a bright red. "Sorry, man," he sputtered, averting his eyes. He took an unnecessarily large step backwards and abruptly spun around towards the door of his room, fidgeting with his keycard.

Once Tweek's back was turned, Craig focused his eyes straight ahead, watching Clyde whistling down the hallway. Fortunately, Clyde seemed completely ignorant of Craig and Tweek's awkward encounter.

Unfortunately, out of the corner of his eye, Craig suddenly noticed Token standing next to Tweek. Token had clearly seen everything. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Craig quickly shut him up with a flash of the middle finger. Without a word, Token turned and followed Tweek into 1214. Craig waited until the door was fully shut before he shuffled down the hallway after Clyde.

…

"What a babe!"

Craig followed Clyde's gaze across the pool. They were stationed near the tiki bar, which was, based on Clyde's preliminary scoping, the perfect vantage point for locating "hot chicks." The target of Clyde's ogling was a girl, stepping out of the pool, dripping with water, swishing her hair from side to side. She certainly was hot, in the conventional sense. "If you're into that sort of thing," Craig muttered.

Clyde didn't hear him, nudging him and treating him to an exaggerated wink. Clyde's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Party time, my man. Here, take this margarita and give it to her. Chicks love free stuff."

Craig couldn't argue with that logic, so he didn't. With an almost robotic sense of purpose, he scooped the drink out of Clyde's sweaty palm and walked over to the girl. She had deposited her soaking wet, scantily-clad body onto a long pool chair and was rubbing herself down with a towel. Craig silenced the mildly anxious voice in the back of his head and stopped a few inches from the edge of her chair. "Hey," he said. She looked up at him expectantly. _Shit._ He imagined Clyde laughing at him. _"Hey? Seriously, bro? That's all you got?"_ Craig inhaled and exhaled quickly before starting again. "You look like you could use a drink." It was a line he heard a lot in porn, and it always worked for those assholes, and this girl looked like probably filmed herself having sex, so why wouldn't it work now?

The girl's eyes lit up. "Wow, thanks," she exclaimed. Her voice was a lot more grating than Craig had anticipated. But hey, what did he expect from a girl straight out of a porno? She took a big gulp of the bright red drink and smacked her lips in satisfaction. "That's good. What's your name?"

"Craig," he said, his voice a monotone. In his mind, this encounter had already soured. He didn't know if he could endure this girl for much longer.

"I'm Stephanie," she declared, as if sharing information of the upmost importance. Just as she parted her lips to say something else, something no doubt equally trivial, Craig felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hi, Stephanie. I'm Craig's friend." Craig twisted his head to see Clyde standing right behind him. "I need to talk to Craig for a second, okay?"

Stephanie nodded seriously and continued chugging the drink. Craig followed Clyde back to the deck chairs where they had set up camp for the afternoon. "What now?" Craig asked, half relieved to have been rescued from that conversation, and half pissed-off at the thought that Clyde had found Craig's performance unsatisfactory.

"You don't need to waste your time with her," Clyde said with a sniff. "I got a good look at her. Her tits are totally fake."

Craig chortled. "Are you serious? _You_ care about her tits being fake?"

"Of course." Clyde patted him on the back. "If we're gonna break your _years_ -long dry spell, it's not gonna be with some slut with plastic tits. Don't worry, I'll work tirelessly to find you someone hotter, fitter, sexier, and just all-around more fuck-able, even if it takes all afternoon."

"That's both the grossest and nicest thing I've ever heard you say," Craig remarked, in an atypical display of unreserved candor.

"Yeah, well, only the best for my friend." Clyde's face sported a look of slight embarrassment, but it soon passed, reverting back to an eager grin. "So," he said, rubbing his hand together, "look around. Who should we go after next?"

"Butters."

Clyde raised an eyebrow. "We should go after Butters?"

"No, Butters is here." He pointed past Clyde to the lanky blonde coming their way.

Clyde rolled his eyes, neglecting to turn around. "Hey, Butters."

"Hi, Clyde! Hi, Craig!" Butters greeted them. He perched on the arm of Clyde's chair and leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, "Did you see that girl over there? Her boobs are ginormous!"

"Yeah, that's Stephanie," Clyde responded, eyeing her contemptuously.

Butters stared at Stephanie and shook his head. "What I'd give to touch those…"

Clyde and Craig exchanged a look, trying not to laugh. Clyde failed, unleashing a loud guffaw. "Don't get too caught up in all that, Butters," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "You deserve a nice girl to settle down with."

"I don't wanna settle down yet," Butters grumbled, his forehead creasing. "I just wanna touch some boobs."

This set off Clyde again. He erupted into peals of laughter, which only made Butters scowl more. Craig couldn't help but smile at Clyde's and Butters' opposing reactions. It seemed so much like old times, the ones Clyde seemed so fond of, that Craig felt himself getting sucked into the nostalgia machine. He almost joined Clyde in laughing at Butters' hopeless innocence. Almost.

"It's not funny!" Butters exclaimed, clearly frustrated.

Clyde nodded, donning a thoughtful expression. "You're right. It's not funny. It's an _opportunity_."

"Huh?" Butters looked to Craig for clarification, but Craig just shrugged. He had no idea what Clyde was thinking half the time, anyway.

Clyde slung his arms around Butters and Craig. "Boys, I'm making you a promise. By the time we leave Vegas, _both_ of you will have gotten laid. And not just regular laid—I'm gonna make sure you have the most magical time of your lives."

Butters clapped his hands together. "Finally!"

Craig blinked. "Dude, that sounds super gay."

"Or," Clyde said slowly, spinning around to face them, "super heterosexual?"

"Gay," Craig repeated.

"Not as gay as not boning any chicks for two years," Clyde pointed out.

"Then…does that make _me_ gay?" Butters inquired, frowning again.

Clyde shook his head. "Not if we get you in bed with a chick ASAP." Butters looked pleased at this answer. Clyde glanced at Craig, evidently waiting for a response. "So? You in?"

Craig mulled over the proposal. To be honest, he could use a good fuck. He could already tell that being around Tweek for three days straight would take a toll on him. The bad memories were already welling up in his mind again. Hopefully, Clyde's little plan could serve as a useful distraction. Craig looked around at all the girls hanging out by the pool. If he set his mind to it, he knew he could get into the right frame of mind to fuck some of them, the right ones: long hair, definitely not blond; hourglass figure; painted fingernails; as feminine as humanly possible.

The more Craig thought about it, the more he got into it. "Okay," he said. Clyde raised his hand in the air to fist-bump him. "But none of that. I don't do that."

Clyde lowered his fist and grinned that stupid toothy grin of his. "Alright, guys. We've got ourselves a plan."

"Awesome!" Butters cried, just a bit too loud. "When do we get started?"

"We can start right now," Clyde said. "Look around and pick out a girl."

Craig watched Butters' eyes scan the pool area, curious to see what kind of girl would interest Butters. His money was on a Stephanie clone lying in a chair by the hot tub. The only criterion Craig was aware of was the size of a girl's tits, and this girl certainly met—probably exceeded—Butters' standards.

Suddenly, Butters smiled, his eyes glistening. "Her," he breathed, pointing conspicuously straight ahead of him. Craig swiveled to get a glimpse of Butters' dream girl. To his surprise, she looked…ordinary.

Clyde seemed similarly confused. "The one with the red hair?"

Butters nodded bashfully. "Yeah."

"By the cabana? The one with the normal-looking tits?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you wanted big tits, Butters," Clyde said impatiently, his hands on his hips.

"I do, but I want her m-more."

Clyde clutched his chest dramatically. "Aw, isn't that romantic!"

Butters was so enamored of her that he failed to react whatsoever to Clyde's teasing, instead opting to continue gawking at his newfound object of desire. "Look, fellers!" he hissed. "She's coming this way!"

Indeed she was. She had no doubt noticed three guys staring at her, and she was likely coming over to rip them a new one. Craig cringed. The last thing he needed was to be subjected to an angry chick squawking at him. He could handle Stan and Kyle's little lovefest, as he could Cartman's moodiness, and even Clyde trying to get him laid. But a lecture? _That_ he didn't sign up for.

The girl stopped right in front of them and, much to Craig's surprise, shot Butters an almost imperceptible smile. "Hey there," she said. Her voice had a sexy, husky quality that made the hairs on the back of Craig's neck stand on end.

Butters clasped his hands behind his back and rocked a little on his heels. He looked like a kindergartener who badly had to use the potty. "Hi."

"I saw you from across the pool, and I thought maybe you'd want to join me and my girlfriends." She glanced at Craig and Clyde as if only just noticing them. "Your friends can come, too."

Craig peeked over the girl's shoulder to see two other girls sitting in this girl's cabana. One was a little homely, but the other one caught Craig's attention immediately. Her hair was very blond, and shaggy, and barely longer than her shoulders. Her body was scrawny and boxy, her chest almost flat, barely filling in her bikini. She was hunched forward and laughing, a nervous laugh that sounded entirely fake. Once her friend started talking, gesticulating wildly, the girl's demeanor changed on a dime, as she started picking at her nails and staring vacantly into space. To put it bluntly, she looked pretty fucking miserable. It was almost contagious. It stirred up something in Craig, something apart from the usual resentment he felt when he saw moody bitches, something…warm, and familiar.

"Sure," he said. Clyde, Butters, and the girl turned to him, all looking slightly perplexed.

"Sure," Clyde parroted suspiciously, squinting at Craig. "I guess we're all coming."

The girl ignored them and gave Butters a "come hither" stare, before spinning on her heels and heading back to the cabana. Butters followed along like a lovesick puppy.

Craig started walking, but the sensation of a hand gripping his forearm stopped him in his tracks. " _You_ wanna go over there?" Clyde whispered.

"Yeah," Craig said blandly. "We have a plan, remember?"

Clyde let go of his arm. "Alright, man. As long as you're cool with it, I'm down for whatever."

As they trailed behind Butters and the red-haired girl, Craig's hand began to quake. He shoved it into his pocket and felt around. _Fuck._ He didn't have any cigarettes on him. _It's okay,_ he reassured himself. _You don't need them right now._ Gritting his teeth, he soldiered on to the cabana, never once taking his eyes off the blond girl. His target. His prey.

* * *

*This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!*

Want to message me? PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback! Every comment and message puts a smile on my face, and I really mean that.

 **ICYMI, I posted a Creek one-shot, called Seven Minutes in Heaven!** It is set in the same universe as this fic, from Tweek's perspective this time, since some of you have requested that. It takes place when the boys are in high school (hence why I made it separate from this fic), because I wanted to give you all a snapshot of what their relationship used to be like. And don't worry—there will be PLENTY more Craig/Tweek interactions coming up soon in this fic... ;)

Anyway, without further ado, hope you enjoy this chapter! ^_^

* * *

Cartman's hotel room was eerily quiet. It was the type of quiet to which Cartman had grown accustomed, the calm after the storm, after his breathing had settled down and his hand stopped cramping. Well, almost stopped cramping. He flexed his fingers and winced. "Fuck," he grumbled to nobody in particular. "I need to find a new hobby." This wasn't so much a hobby as it was a necessity, a therapeutic activity that ironically served to fuel his neurosis, but he wasn't about to admit that to himself.

Once his hand was fully dexterous again, he unlatched his suitcase to find the right thing to wear to the dinner cruise. He had noticed how oddly formal he had looked compared to everyone else at Stan's little surprise party, so he needed a wardrobe change before he left the room. He had almost half an hour before he had to be in the lobby, but even though he had only brought a few items of clothing, it took him several minutes to decide on an outfit, which annoyed him further.

Accessories were an additional stressor. He tried on a tie, but it made his neck disappear into his chest. It made him look even fatter. Disgusted, he tore off the tie and unfastened the top button of his white collared shirt, revealing just a hint of chest hair. He tucked the shirt into his dark jeans and slipped on a pair of black loafers. There, now he looked casual, with a slight air of sophistication This could work.

Except… _Ugh, the cufflinks._ He grabbed two pairs off the bedside table and examined them closely. Were the gold-colored ones too flashy? Were the black ones too boring?

As he contemplated the cufflinks, he couldn't tear his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror. Without thinking, he adopted several poses, placing his hands on his hips, folding his arms, flexing his muscles. _Would I fuck me?_ he asked himself, and immediately chuckled at the thought. Cartman wasn't about to fuck a fatty. Not even close. One thing he loved about Heidi was her staunch dedication to a daily workout and nutritional regime, which had garnered impressive results over the years. If she had done this to make herself more attractive to Cartman (and, let's face it, of _course_ she had), it had been a futile endeavor, but he appreciated it nonetheless, as he reveled in the stares he received whenever he walked around town with Heidi's small, dainty fingers clutched in his meaty palm. Heidi didn't wear a lot of make-up or skimpy clothing, only because she didn't need to. Her face was nothing to write home about—pretty, not beautiful—but her body was magnificent: long, toned legs; smooth skin, without a blemish or imperfection; curves in all the right places. Cartman always felt a kind of warmth spreading throughout his body as he took in the furtive glances and confused whispers emanating from passersby, who wondered, "Why the hell is _she_ with _him_?", or, even better, "God, I wish I were _that_ lucky son-of-a-bitch."

And now that lucky son-of-a-bitch was hundreds of miles away from the dazzling woman, trying to figure out which cufflinks were best to impress a pale, scrawny guy with unruly red curls and some acne leftover from his teen years. Cartman found himself disgusted by what he was doing, and threw the cufflinks on the bed. However he looked right now would have to suffice. He wasn't about to waste time on the likes of Kyle Broflovski.

Before he could devote more energy to fixing up his appearance, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. If he had to sit in the lobby on his phone for the next twenty-five minutes, so be it; at least the lobby didn't have any mirrors.

Once everyone arrived at the lobby, they moved en masse to the parking lot. Cartman jammed his hands in his pockets and plopped himself in the middle of the moving huddle, listening to Clyde tell everyone about Butters and some chick making out by the pool.

"You should've seen him!" Clyde exclaimed. "He was like fucking Don Juan or something."

"I don't know about _that_ ," Butters said quietly, beaming and failing to hide it.

"And Craig, too. Oh my God, that blonde girl was so into you!"

Craig rolled his eyes. "You're making it a much bigger deal than it needs to be." But he, too, looked secretly pleased.

"That's awesome, man," Token said. "Sounds like you and Butters are going to have a _great_ first night in Vegas."

Cartman sidled up to Butters and elbowed him in the side. "Don't forget to bring that pamphlet we got back in sex ed class. You'll need it if you want to navigate the complex array of erogenous zones on a woman's body."

Butters' brow furrowed. "Array of _what_ zones?"

"The places you touch to make a girl feel good," Clyde cut in.

"Oh!" Butters' face lit up. "Like the clitoris! That's the little thing that gets all wet and oogie when you—"

"Alright, guys," Kyle said loudly, staring them down. "We're here." He gestured to the massive black Chevy parked in front of them.

Butters opened the back door and wrinkled his nose. "Before we leave, I gotta ask, who's sitting in the back?"

The guys gathered around and peered over Butters' shoulder. Sitting in the back involved being squished next to two other people on a fairly narrow bench seat—in other words, not a very desirable place to spend a long car ride.

Clyde eyed everyone and scratched his chin. "The smallest people should be in the back, right? Sorry, Butters, but you're the smallest, man."

Before Clyde could finish, Butters had already started clambering into the rear of the car. "I'm used to it," he yelled from the back.

Clyde squinted at the rest of them as he continued to stroke his imaginary beard. "Okay, I think Craig is next."

Craig rolled his eyes. "Thanks. I appreciate all your support."

Clyde smirked and ushered Craig into the car. "Now we have to decide between Kyle and Kenny."

"What!" Kyle's eyes bugged. "I'm not as skinny as Kenny!"

Stan pursed his lips in thought. "You don't play basketball anymore, so maybe you _are_."

"Stan!"

Stan held up his hands defensively. "I'm just saying that, you know, you're not as muscle-y as you used to be…"

"Plus, you're actually starting to get some meat on those bones, Kenny," Cartman interjected, jabbing the blonde's arm with his finger. "It's amazing how much you can buy with food stamps these days."

Kenny pulled back his arm. "You know what food stamps can't buy? Cigarettes." Despite trying to hold it in, a look of bewilderment spread across Cartman's face. "What, did you think I was so skinny in high school 'cause I didn't eat? Or are you confused 'cause you didn't know I gave up smoking? You've never heard of a fiscally responsible welfare queen?" Kenny flipped his hair dramatically.

Stan stepped behind Cartman and Kenny and clapped them on the back. They both winced, but Stan didn't seem to notice. "Wow," Stan chuckled. "This is great, just like old times. You guys haven't changed at all."

Kyle folded his arms. "As much as I love this little throwback moment, can we get going? I don't want to be late."

"I'll bite the bullet," Kenny muttered, following Butters' and Craig's footsteps.

After this drama had concluded, Stan bolted to the driver's seat. Kyle didn't realize what had happened until it was too late. "Stan, you don't have to drive," he said feebly.

"It's my bachelor party!" Stan exclaimed. "And I want to drive!"

"But you don't know how to get there!"

"Dude, there's this thing called GPS."

Kyle seemed to concede this point. Cartman could see the gears turning in his head. In the flash of an eye, Kyle was running, making his way around the front of the car.

But Token had beaten him to it. "Shotgun!" Token yelled, whipping open the passenger seat door, a split second before Kyle arrived at his feet.

Kyle looked past Token to where Stan was sitting, his face crestfallen. "Dude—"

"Sorry, Kyle," Token said with a shrug, looking more victorious than apologetic. "I get car sick. I need to sit up front."

Stan smiled. "Yeah, and this way, we'll get a chance to catch up!"

"Okay," Kyle said with a sigh. "I guess I'll just sit in the…" He looked further back in the car. While he had been consumed with sitting next to his best friend, he had neglected to notice Clyde and Tweek getting into the next row of seats. All that remained were two seats in the third row, one for him, and one for…Cartman.

"Fuck, yeah," Cartman said with a grin, fitting himself snugly into the seat. "It's you and me, Jew."

Kyle looked irritated as he made his way into the car, his brow knitted and his breathing slightly heavier than usual, and Cartman was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. He hadn't been able to experience Angry Kyle in years, and it was truly a sight to behold, even if it was just Slightly Pissed Off Kyle.

"Everyone ready back there?" Stan asked, shifting the joystick into reverse.

"Yeah! Road trip!" Butters yelled.

"That's my fucking ear you're yelling into, Butters!" Cartman yelled.

"Stop yelling!" Tweek yelled.

Stan shook his head. "Jesus Christ. A simple 'yes' would've worked." And with that, they were off, speeding out of the parking lot, down a ramp, and onto the colorful Las Vegas Strip.

…

Kyle had been quiet for too long. While Stan and Token guffawed over absurdly mundane anecdotes from their college years, and Clyde and Tweek furiously jabbed at their phones as they tried to beat each other on some stupid mobile game, and Butters regaled Kenny and Craig with recaps of some reality show where two dudes flip houses or something, Kyle elected to stare outside at the tall sandstone wall that lined the highway for miles, his elbow propped up on the armrest and his curls dancing buoyantly as the wind blew through the partially open window. Try as he might, Cartman couldn't take his eyes off of Kyle. Fortunately, Kyle didn't seem to notice that he was being watched, and that enabled Cartman to examine every inch of his body. Every so often, Kyle would tap his foot to one of the classic rock songs playing from Stan's Spotify list, and Cartman would stare at the slight movement of his ass cheek as his thigh bounced to the beat. Cartman could only imagine the feeling of grabbing his ass and squeezing tightly, until Kyle moaned in—

"What do you want?"

Cartman snapped out of his fantasy to find Kyle staring at him expectantly. He blinked, trying not to seem so caught off guard. "What do _you_ want?" he shot back.

"Whatever. Just quit looking at me like that." Kyle turned his head to face the window once more.

"Like _what_?"

Now Kyle looked really annoyed. "Stop messing with me, Cartman. It's bad enough that I have to sit here with you. I don't need to put up with you giving me shit, too."

"Moi?" Cartman said, feigning offense. "Give you shit? Never!"

Kyle's eyes met his again. He felt himself losing his self-assurance, as if Kyle's eyes were penetrating his very _soul_. "Can you please act normal, just for this weekend? Then you can go back to South Park and be a complete asshole to everyone. But for this weekend, it would be great if you could just be a decent person and let us all have a good time."

"So you don't think I'm a decent person, huh, Kahl?"

Kyle's stern expression wavered. He reached up to tug at one of his curls. "Honestly, I have no idea what you're like anymore. I mean, you…you have facial hair now, for God's sake."

Cartman chuckled, rubbing his furry jaw with the back of his hand. "Isn't it great? People take me so fucking seriously."

"Pfft. Sure."

Cartman's face colored. "What?"

"Nothing."

" _What_ , Kahl?"

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "It's none of my business, but… It just doesn't look right. You look like someone's creepy uncle or something."

Cartman fought the urge to pull out his phone and check out his reflection. He looked at Kyle, who was studying his face carefully, clearly serious about the creepy uncle comment. Cartman reached up to itch his mustache; if he could only itch hard enough, maybe he could just scratch the whole damn thing off right now. "So you think I should shave it?"

"Why are you asking me?" Kyle asked, eyebrow still raised. "Like I said, it's none of my business. Maybe you should ask, I don't know, Heidi, or something?"

Before Cartman could respond, Kenny's head popped up by his shoulder. "Heidi hates it, too," Kenny said.

Kyle cocked his head. "How do you know that?"

"Yeah, Kenny," Cartman said in a low voice, his fingers forming air quotes, "how _do_ you 'know' that?"

"She talks about it all the time," Kenny said with a shrug.

Cartman's face darkened. "Why the fuck do you talk to Heidi?"

"I don't. She talks to me, like, every time she walks into the store looking for you."

Cartman made a mental note of that. "When did she say she hates my facial hair?" he demanded.

"She didn't. She brings up how much she likes it, constantly."

Kyle wrinkled his nose. "Then it doesn't sound like she hates it…"

"She definitely hates it, dude. She gets all defensive about it. And we know what that means." Kenny's eyes darted to Cartman, as if gauging his reaction. Cartman tried to stare him down, but Kenny seemed unfazed.

"Kenny," Cartman said through gritted teeth, "go back to the fucking backseat, where you belong."

Thankfully, Kenny silently complied, leaning back until his face was out of Cartman's field of vision. Cartman breathed a small sigh of relief.

"And that's why you got your own room," Cartman heard Kyle say under his breath.

Cartman grinned. "I forgot to thank you for that."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "For what? Not being able to think of a single person who would be willing to share a room with you for the weekend?"

Cartman's expression soured. "Hey, any of these guys would be lucky to have me as a roommate. I'm neat—"

"Yeah, crumbs-all-over-the-floor is the new neat."

Cartman swiveled to face the backseat. "Shut the fuck up, Kenny, or I swear to God—"

"You should see his office," Kenny added snidely. "It's a mess."

"Fuck you!"

"HEY!" Stan yelled from the front. "Cool it back there! I don't want to hear about you guys' stupid drama!"

It was quiet for a few seconds, and then the rest of the conversations in the car resumed.

Kenny sighed. "What Stan wants, Stan gets," he muttered.

Cartman snorted. "What else is new?"

"I'm going to choose to ignore all that," Kyle said with a frown, "but you guys seriously need to shut up. It's Stan's party—"

"We know, we know," Kenny interjected. "We get the idea. We have to be nice to Stan on his special weekend because his special day is coming up and we wouldn't want to piss off the golden boy, would we?"

Kyle didn't reply, electing instead to stare out the window at the sandstone wall. Kenny was roped into Butters' and Craig's conversation, leaving Cartman alone next to a silent Kyle, yet again. This time, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

"You don't need to flip out over everything, Kahl. Stan's gonna have a good time no matter what, and you'll be the hero for making it happen."

No response. Cartman thought that maybe Kyle wasn't paying attention, when all of a sudden, Kyle spoke up, without looking away from the window. "Why did you even come?"

"What?"

Now Kyle turned to face him. "Why did you come on this trip? To shit on Stan? To fight with Kenny? To rip on me?"

Cartman gulped down the answer he wanted to give, the honest answer, until it was pushed deep into his psyche. "I was curious, you know, to see what everyone is like now."

Kyle looked surprised, but he seemed to accept this response. "Yeah, I have to admit, I was pretty curious to see what _you're_ like now. I thought maybe you had turned into a different person or something."

"Have I?"

"It doesn't seem like it," Kyle scoffed. "But then again, I haven't been around you long enough to find out. We haven't really talked in, what, five years?"

Cartman tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And why is that, Kahl?"

Kyle's cleared his throat. "Because I went to college and made friends. You know, real friends, who aren't literal Nazis." Kyle leaned in closer, his face inches away from Cartman's. Cartman swallowed deeply and tried to suppress his budding erection. "Did _you_ make friends?"

Of course Cartman hadn't made any friends. Not real friends, at least. Not people who knew him as well as Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, who had seen him at his worst. No, on the contrary, his college "friends" thought he was a smart, charming, affable guy, someone to turn to for help on a problem set, someone to rely on to buy everyone a round of beer at the end of the night. Cartman couldn't find any reason to share his deepest thoughts and emotions with his classmates, but he saw great social and professional utility in making himself beloved among a circle of wealthy and well-connected acquaintances. When he needed to vent about a failing group project, or boast about his grade on a challenging exam, or fight back tears after bombing a job interview, he would go to Heidi. He could always depend on her to cup his face in her hands, press her forehead against his, and tell him how proud she was of him. _"Who's my big man?"_ she would whisper, before planting a soft kiss on his lips. She always knew just what to say.

"No," Cartman said abruptly, surprised at his own answer as he pulled away from Kyle. "For your information, it takes hard work and effort to balance classes, extracurriculars, internships, and a girlfriend. That doesn't leave a lot of free time to lounge around in the quad on the weekends, playing hacky sack and Frisbee with a bunch of losers."

There may or may not have been a Facebook video posted during freshman year of college of Kyle playing hacky sack and Frisbee with his friends. Cartman may or may not have watched it repeatedly.

Kyle looked taken aback. "Wow, I… I didn't realize you cared so much about all that stuff."

"Of course, I do. If you want a good job after college, you have to look impressive to potential employers, Kahl."

"So that's how you got your job at True-Value? You impressed the owner?"

"Yeah, duh," Cartman said, a little too quickly. "How do you think I got to be the manager? I'm an impressive guy."

Kyle shook his head. "I don't know what to say. You have a great job, you're still with your high school girlfriend… Are you guys married?"

"Fuck, no," Cartman said with a chuckle. He noted the confusion on Kyle's face. "I mean, you know, we're just not ready for that yet."

"I get that," Kyle said with a nod. Suddenly, his eyes clouded over, as he stared seemingly _through_ Cartman. "You're so lucky, Cartman. To have someone in your life like Heidi, to be able to come home to her every night…" He faced forward, his eyes watching Stan. "Like Stan and Bebe. I wish I had that."

Cartman frowned, feeling like he was missing something. Then it clicked. He could feel his blood starting to boil. _I wish I had that._ What was "that"? _Fucking Stan_ , he thought, gritting his teeth. _I should have known._ Kyle looked at Stan so wistfully that Cartman thought he might vomit at the sight of it.

He turned and faced the window, trying to block out Kyle from his peripheral vision. As he stewed over his latest revelation, he realized something positive: at least now there was one less hurdle to cross.

Kyle was obviously gay.

* * *

*This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!*

Want to reach me privately? PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!


	6. Chapter 6

It's time for more Craig! I loved doing deep dives into Craig's confusing and confused thoughts in this chapter—I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I loved writing them! And, as per requests, Tweek has a big role in this chapter... :)

Please let me know what you think, and happy reading!

* * *

"Dude, wait up!"

Craig turned to see Kenny jogging after him across the parking lot abutting the Lake Mead Marina. "What?" He only now noticed how far away he was from everyone else, the wide expanse of asphalt between him from the others seeming to stretch on endlessly. That was nothing compared to the lake. Even in the twilight, Craig could tell how massive it was—and that was just the part that he could see. He wasn't sure which was more anxiety-inducing: the lake, or the towering mountains surrounding it on all sides. Somehow, he felt exposed and highly visible, but also closed in, all at the same time. He shook his head and took three deep breaths, the in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth kind. Jesus, he couldn't remember the last time he needed to do that stupid exercise.

Once Kenny finally caught up to him, the blonde was out of breath. "Fuck, you walk fast."

"Didn't you hear Kyle in the car? They have an open bar. I want to get a drink before there's a line."

Kenny frowned. "You need to lay off all the booze and start drinking water or something."

"You need to lay off all the sitting and start doing some running or something."

Kenny punched him in the arm. "Hey, I exercise!"

"Jerking off isn't exercise."

"Okay, so then _you_ don't get any exercise, either. In fact, you get a _lot_ of not-exercise."

Craig held up his middle finger, causing Kenny to break out in a grin. Craig smiled back, one his rare smiles that only seemed to come out around Kenny. It was hard not to smile at the blonde, so full of life, always with a quip at the ready, yet somehow also perpetually concerned with people's wellbeing, especially Craig's. Craig hadn't had someone like that in his life in a long, long time. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

"Kenny, if you just wanted to get pissy at me for being a lazy drunk, you didn't have to make me wait up for you. There's this great thing called 'texting' that all the kids are into these days."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "I needed to get away from Butters for five minutes. I couldn't take another second of him blabbing about that girl from the pool. I think he's in love."

"In other words, you got bored, so you came running over to your backup friend."

" _No_ ," Kenny huffed, covering his face in exasperation. "God, you're so dramatic. I mainly came over here because I want to know if Clyde was being serious back at the hotel. About you and that girl…?"

If anyone else had asked that question, Craig would have blown them off. But this was Kenny. He had talked to Kenny quite a bit over a month's worth of taking smoke breaks (during which only Craig would smoke) and getting drinks at the bar after work (during which only Craig would drink). As Kenny smirked at him from the neighboring barstool, sipping a vodka tonic without the vodka, Craig would get a little too drunk and say some really stupid shit. He couldn't have been too drunk the night he spilled his guts about his sex life, or lack thereof, because he remembered Kenny's reaction quite vividly. Craig's friend had shaken his head and said, "Dude, you have the self-esteem of a guy's who's _reeeeally_ ugly."

Craig had downed his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No shit. Why wouldn't I?" He let out a small burp.

"You wouldn't," Kenny started, grimacing and waving away the burp fumes from his face, "because you're _not_ an ugly guy. If you stopped being so cynical, you'd get tons of girl to like you."

"Stop patronizing me."

"I'm not!" Kenny held his phone up to Craig as a mirror, with the front-facing camera turned on. "Look at yourself objectively for a second. Look at your eyes—they're the bluest fucking things I've ever seen. Women love that."

Craig rolled his blue-fucking-eyes. "So what? Practically half the guys in town have blue eyes."

"Okay," Kenny conceded, "but you have other stuff going for you, too. Your hair is intense, man."

"My hair _?_ "

"Yeah, it's, like, super black. Like anime character black."

Now it was Craig's turn to smirk. "You watch anime?"

"Don't change the subject," Kenny said in mock anger. "We're talking about you and your hair. If you would just wash it like a normal person—"

"I wash my hair."

"It doesn't show," Kenny retorted.

"So what you're saying is that I have generic eyes and greasy hair? Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

Kenny had given up at that point and let Craig change the subject to something less personal. But Kenny's words had gotten to him. That night, he had gone home and examined himself in the mirror for a good ten minutes straight. He didn't buy Kenny's claim that he could magically attract women simply by bathing himself a little more frequently. That wouldn't change his bone structure, which seemed to be too…bony, nor would it change his eyes, which, sure, were blue, but also were sunken in like they belonged on the face of a middle-aged man. Nor his skin, his shitty skin, which was so unbelievably fucked and riddled with scars. At least teenage Craig had possessed the foresight not to cut up his face; but if his parents, and the school, and the state hadn't gotten involved when they did, who knows what would have happened to his face.

So, in some respects, Craig should have felt grateful any time he accidentally glimpsed the gnarled brown protrusions on his arm. But he didn't. He merely felt the bad thoughts and memories well up again, and he had to work hard to tamp them back the fuck down.

"Craig? Hello? Did you hear what I said?"

Kenny's words jolted him back to the Lake Mead Marina parking lot. Fuck, he had to be careful about that. He didn't want Kenny to think he was dissociating. He vaguely remembered letting slip some mention of that horrible state he would sink into when the world got a little too overwhelming for his brain to handle. He couldn't remember if it was a topic he mentioned to Kenny over the past few weeks, or if it was something that was brought up during one of their stoned afternoon conversations way back in high school. Fortunately, Craig had become less and less familiar with that horrible state over the years, but it was still something that loomed over his psyche, and the last thing he needed was Kenny worrying about him. Craig was already acclimated to worrying about himself, and there was such a thing as too many cooks in the kitchen.

"Yeah, I was talking to her," Craig said with a shrug.

Kenny's mouth twisted into a look of amusement. "Talking, huh?"

"Yes. Talking."

"And you're seeing her later tonight?"

Craig's mouth dropped open a little, but he quickly snapped it shut. "Yeah, she and her friends invited us to hang out with them after the cruise." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How did you know that?"

"How did I know that the girls would want to spend more time with you guys? Let's see: Butters and his girl clearly have some kind of magical bond. Clyde is, well, Clyde. And you… Your hair is clean. And short."

Craig blinked. "It's not short."

"No, but it's short- _er_. Don't think I didn't notice your haircut this morning." Kenny was right, obviously. Craig had cut his hair the night before their flight out of Denver. He wasn't entirely certain what had possessed him to do it, but now his hair didn't flop in front of his eyes anymore, and it made him feel somewhat naked. "I _told_ you that if you cleaned yourself up, you'd get girls, didn't I?"

Craig didn't want to dignify that with a response, even though he knew Kenny was right. Fortunately, he didn't have to, because by now they had reached the dock where the cruise ship was stationed. Only it wasn't really much of a cruise at all; it was more like one of those old-timey steamships, and a fairly small one at that.

Kenny checked the ticket Kyle had passed him in the car. "Dude, is this the right boat?"

"I think so." Craig spotted a uniformed man and handed him his ticket. The man took the ticket, marked something down on a clipboard, and nodded for Craig to head on up the walkway. Craig turned to Kenny and shrugged. "Seems right."

Except that once they got onboard, it only got stranger. The cabin was filled wall-to-wall with nicely-dressed tables, the speakers emitted the smooth sounds of a jazz saxophone, and the man standing behind the bar looked about a hundred years old.

Kenny picked up a cloth napkin from one of the tables and examined it closely. It was folded in the shape of a rosebud. He almost dropped it back on the table, as if it were about to burn him. "Are you _sure_ this is the right boat?"

"Yeah," Craig heard Token say behind him, "isn't this is a little, uh, mellow?"

Clyde swung past Craig and plopped himself down in one of the faux-leather chairs. "Goddamn Broflovski," he grumbled. "I thought this was supposed to be a party boat."

Craig sat down next to him. "Not everything has to be a party."

"When you're in Vegas, it sure as hell does."

"He's not wrong," Kenny interjected, pointing out the window. They all rotated in their seats to see several couples jet skiing only a few hundred yards away, whooping their asses off.

Craig turned his gaze to the ancient bartender, who was currently hacking up a lung. He shook his head. "Okay, point taken. This is fucking lame."

"Come on, you guys!" Stan exclaimed, sitting down at the other end of the table with a smile on his face. "It's kind of cool, you know? I feel fancy." His voice cracked a bit at the end.

Butters nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, this is neat! I haven't been to such a nice place since I went to Olive Garden for my birthday last year."

Cartman plonked down next to Kenny and leaned in over the table. "Now the real question is," he whispered conspiratorially, "when Kyle booked this cruise, was he stupid enough not to realize it would suck donkey balls? Or does he _like_ sucking donkey balls?"

"I heard that, asshole." Kyle glared at Cartman and sat down warily next to Stan. "I knew it wouldn't be, like, a rave or anything, but I didn't realize it was going to be so…" He trailed off, scanning the room with a gaze of increasing disappointment. Other guests had started arriving, and they were all at least middle-aged. Kyle folded his arms on the table and dropped his head. "I really fucked up, didn't I."

Stan patted him on the back. "No, dude, it's not that bad, I promise. We'll have a great time tonight, right, guys?"

A chorus of mumbles echoed around the table. Craig stayed silent. His eyes were fixated on the chair directly across from him. "Where's Tweek?" he said quietly, to no one in particular.

"Oh, he had to go to the bathroom," Clyde said, not bothering to look up from his phone, which he was using to text one of the girls from the pool. " _Again_. You know how he is." Clyde froze, his eyes meeting Craig's for a split second before returning to his phone. He clearly regretted saying that. Craig didn't blame him. But Craig himself didn't care about the careless remark. He had just realized that the only remaining seat was the one he was staring at, which meant that—

"There you are!" Clyde exclaimed when he saw Tweek come into view, all of a sudden and a little too loudly. "You gotta check out these napkins, man. This place is ridiculous."

"Yeah, totally," Tweek said with a quick nod. He eyed Craig and flinched. Craig wasn't sure if it was a reaction to Craig's presence, or just a twitch. He wasn't going to pursue it. He just avoided eye contact with Tweek.

Craig kept up this strategy as they all indulged in cardboard-flavored rolls and frozen butter pads; while they spent twenty minutes trying to figure out who was ordering what off the menu that had, like, six items on it; and throughout a tedious story Stan told about a decidedly unfunny party he had thrown in college. By the time a plate of rubbery chicken and suspiciously brown orange potatoes was placed in front of him, his appetite was already gone. And, to make matters worse, he was stressed the fuck out. He pushed his chair out and attempted to leave the table quietly.

"Where you heading?" Clyde asked, between mouthfuls of gravy-doused "steak."

"I'm just taking a breather," he replied, pointing outside to the deck. "I need some fresh air."

Clyde didn't ask any questions, so Craig hurried outside before anyone else could bother him.

As soon as he felt the cool night air wash over him, he let out a long sigh of relief. It was exhausting, having to be on guard on all night, as Tweek judged his every move. Okay, he had no proof that Tweek was doing that, but he had no proof that Tweek _wasn't_. Like Craig, Tweek had mostly remained silent throughout dinner so far, and Craig had no idea what was going through the guy's head. _Jesus,_ he thought to himself, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his dark jeans, the nice ones. _If this is what one hour is like, I can't_ fucking wait _for the rest of the weekend._

He took a long drag from the cigarette. He seriously needed something to help him relax. Unfortunately, even after several minutes, the cigarette was doing anything but. With a sigh, he flicked the goddamn thing over the railing.

"Hi, Craig."

He jumped. The voice sounded small and far away. _The cigarette?_ He grabbed the railing and peered down into the swirling blue water, trying to spot the small white thing amidst the churning waves. _Are you shitting me?_ _Am I hallucinating? Have I really sunk this low?_

"Craig?"

The voice sounded closer this time. It was still quiet, but it had a familiar edge, a gravely undertone that no amount of relaxation would eliminate. A strange sensation washed over him, as he considered standing perfectly still, looking over the edge of the deck, waiting for the offender to just walk away. But, of course, he couldn't do that.

He spun around to see Tweek standing there. "Hi," Craig sputtered, coughing, all of a sudden feeling very out of breath.

Tweek looked concerned. "How are you doing?"

Craig blinked back at him. He needed another cigarette if he was going to deal with this crap. He waited until one was lit and ready to go, and he had taken one very long drag, replete with more coughing, before he answered Tweek's inquiry. "I'm fine."

"No, I mean how are you _doing?_ "

Craig had to fight to prevent the corner of his mouth from turning up. Apparently that was still one of Tweek's favorite questions. Craig knew what it meant—the first one was a futile attempt at small talk, but the second one was more probing, trying to get at some sort of essential truth about the person's state of being. Craig didn't particularly like getting asked that question when they were dating, but perhaps nostalgia was clouding his judgement, because right now it was pretty fucking endearing. "I'm…okay," he breathed.

Tweek stuck his hands in his pockets and took a step closer to him. "Really?" he asked, peering at him curiously.

"Yeah, really." It wasn't a lie. In this moment, Craig wasn't feeling anxious anymore. Such close proximity to Tweek was supposed to be painful, but for some reason, this felt comfortable, just like old times.

"Good," Tweek said, seeming to accept this answer.

"How are you?" Craig wasn't sure if he wanted to know, but he couldn't very well stand there in complete silence. Who knew what his stupid brain would make him do if that happened.

Tweek shrugged, twitching slightly. "I'm okay, too."

Honestly, Craig believed him. For the first time today, Craig got a good look at Tweek. Tweek looked better than Craig had ever seen him. His hair appeared somewhat combed. His twitch was only mildly perceptible. He had forgotten to button one of the buttons on his shirt, but hey, at least all the buttons were in the correct holes for once. Craig felt the urge to close the gap between them and button that fucking button, and maybe even use his thumb to wipe off the tiny dot of red sauce on Tweek's chin, just like he used to back in the school cafeteria on pizza day. But he knew there was no way in hell he would actually do any of that. So instead he just stood there.

"Craig…" Tweek started, staring at him intently. "I want everything to be okay between us."

Craig averted his gaze and blew out a cloud of smoke. "It is."

"No, dude, it isn't!"

Craig looked up to see Tweek's arm starting to shake. "It's fine. You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do!" Tweek's eyes were ablaze. "We can't just avoid each other all weekend! You don't have to like me, but tell me what I can do to make it better! _Ah!_ "

As if operating purely on muscle memory, Craig reached out and grabbed Tweek's arm, which was only a few shakes away from flailing wildly. He felt his hand grip it tightly and give it a small squeeze.

The shaking stopped.

Once he realized what he was doing, Craig froze. Tweek seemed to be in a similar state of disorientation. Letting go of Tweek's arm like a hot potato, Craig stepped back and looked back down at the ground, the streaks in the wooden planks below him blurring together. His head hurt.

"Thanks," Tweek murmured, clumsily jamming his hand back in his pocket. "Craig, I… I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Craig would have laughed, if he wasn't feeling so exhausted. "You're not. It's fine."

"Please, stop being so cryptic." Tweek looked at him with pleading eyes.

"I'm not."

"Look," Tweek said with a sigh, "this isn't going to work if we can't even talk to each other. Maybe it's a good idea if one of us goes home."

Hypothetical Craig, Logical Craig, jumped at the thought. _I'll do it! I'll leave right now!_ But Logical Craig wasn't here right now, staring into two gorgeous eyes (which, for the record were no doubt bluer than Craig's. He would have to follow up with Kenny on that). "No," Craig burst out, his brain in too much of a jumble to properly vet anything coming out of his mouth. "We don't have to go. I'll just…stop being so awkward around you."

"You're not the only one being awkward," Tweek said with a small smile.

 _Shit._ Craig felt his knees starting to go weak. All he wanted to do was step closer to Tweek and wrap his arms around—

 _Bzzt_.

Craig pulled out his phone. His saving grace.

" _Just checking in. I'll be up for a few more hours if you want to talk."_

 _Oh, great_ , Craig thought, shoving his phone back in his pocket. _Perfect timing._ He forgot that he had mentioned the Vegas trip to his therapist, Dave. Now all he could hear was Dave's voice in his head, telling him to "disengage from the situation." He glanced up at Tweek, who was staring back at him expectantly, innocently. "I guess we should go back inside," Craig mumbled.

"Okay." If he hadn't been so distracted by Dave's text, he could have sworn he saw Tweek's face drop a little. But it was probably nothing.

…

The rest of dinner hadn't gone too badly. Craig and Tweek didn't talk to each other at all after their conversation on the deck, but at one point Craig asked someone to pass him the salt, and Tweek handed it to him, and they had smiled at each, and it was _everything_.

But right now, Craig had to push the memory of that moment out of his head. He, Clyde, and Butters were riding the hotel elevator up to the suite shared by the three girls from the pool. Craig didn't know what to expect from this little rendezvous; when they had all hung out earlier in the afternoon, he had felt a little on edge, trying almost desperately to impress the girl with the short blonde hair. They had hit it off pretty quickly, his cool and cynical demeanor working to neutralize her jumpiness and rapid mood swings. Unfortunately, he didn't feel so confident now, his eyelids heavy and his head still heavy after an emotionally-taxing evening. Regardless, he had also had a sexually-charged evening, and all he wanted right now was an outlet. He had to make it work with this girl tonight.

Once they got off on the right floor, Clyde pulled Craig and Butters aside in the corridor. "Okay, here's the plan. Butters—"

"Remember, Clyde," Butters interjected, "I'm not going by Butters."

Clyde shook his head. "I don't get why you introduced yourself to the girls as Leopold."

"That _is_ his name," Craig pointed out.

Butters nodded. "And Butters isn't really a sexy name."

"Oh, and Leopold is?" Clyde shot back.

Craig crossed his arms impatiently. "Whatever. Can you just get on with your little pep talk?"

"Okay." Clyde rubbed his hands together. "It's pretty obvious why they invited us up here. But they're chicks, and they're in a group, so they're not necessarily gonna be aggressive about this. They're gonna offer us drinks, and then we'll all sit around together for a while, and before we know it, hours will have passed, and our dicks are still dry. So we need to make sure each of us are ready to make the first move. _We_ have to be aggressive. Is everyone on board with that?" He waited for Butters and Craig to nod before continuing. "Good. Now, let's make sure we're ready. My chick's name is Sarah. Butt— Leopold, what's your chick's name?"

"Cassandra," Butters said dreamily.

"Craig?"

Craig's mind felt foggy. He couldn't remember the girl's name if his life depended on it. "Uh…"

"Goddammit, Craig!" Clyde chastised him. "It's Kayla! Drill that into your brain."

Butters looked impressed. "Gee, Clyde, how did you remember that?"

Clyde grinned. "You always have to remember a girl's name. Otherwise, what are you gonna whisper in her ear when you're touching her?"

Something about the soft, seductive way he said that made Craig's pants get a little bit tighter. Craig shifted uncomfortably. "Dude, let's just go already. We don't need a detailed game plan or anything; this isn't a football game."

"Fine," Clyde said with a sigh. "But if you don't get laid tonight, it's not my fault."

Clyde led them down the hallway, rapping three times once he found the correct door. Clyde's girl— _what the fuck was her name again?_ —opened the door and smiled coyly. "Hi, boys," she greeted them, gesturing into the suite. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Craig followed the others into the massive living room. The other two girls were lounging on the couch, nursing glasses of white wine. He gave Kayla the once-over. Dressed casually in loose jeans and a slightly-oversized long-sleeved shirt, she looked even better than before. It did anything but accentuate her body—in fact, it made her frame look even more boxy. He wasn't quite sure why he liked that so much, but he did, so he sat down next to her and leaned his arm on the cushion behind her. "Hey," he said, hoping he sounded more control than he actually felt.

"H-hi," she said quietly, smiling, but tapping her wine glass repeatedly with two fingers. She kept doing it until he grabbed her fingers. That made her stop. He wrapped his hand around the rest of her fingers. She looked so frail.

He felt a sudden pang of loneliness, and it fortified his desire for sex. If it had to be with anyone, it would be with her. He could easily morph her into his own personal fantasy. If he didn't pay too close attention to her, she looked a lot like… Well, she looked very familiar. He almost blushed at the thought, but caught himself before his cheeks started turning red.

Just as Clyde had predicted, they all spent a good chunk of time engaging in idle chitchat, before Butters' girl took the initiative and led Butters to her bedroom. The two remaining pairs laughed awkwardly before going their separate ways, as well. Craig followed Kayla into her room, which abutted the room currently containing Butters and his girl. Craig heard some noises through the thin wall, perhaps the sounds of kissing, and he tried his hardest to tune them out.

Wordlessly, he and Kayla began undressing. He took off his clothes as fast as he could, hoping to jump under the covers before Kayla could say anything to him, about him, but it was too late. She approached him quickly, placing her hands on his chest and feeling up and down his torso. "You're really good-looking," she murmured.

That's not what he expected to hear. Nobody had ever said that to him before. "Thanks," he managed to get out.

If she was expecting a compliment in return, she didn't indicate as much. Instead, she crawled into bed, beckoning him over with a single movement of her forefinger. He complied.

They adjusted the blankets, and then…nothing. Craig glanced at Kayla lying next to him, unmoving. It was becoming apparent that, as usual, he was going to have to be the aggressor. As a kid, that was a role he always felt comfortable filling; as Kenny liked to remind him, he had been quite the bully in high school. It was more than that, though. He had been a different kind of aggressor, too: texting Tweek dirty things during class, moving his hand up Tweek's thigh at the back of the school bus, pulling him into the boys' locker room after wrestling matches and pressing him against the wall…

But that was six years ago, before Tweek broke Craig's fucking heart. Before Craig realized that love wasn't something he could count on anymore. It didn't help that Dave had put him on some new antidepressants a few years back that, while relatively effective, also effectively diminished Craig's libido to almost nothing. That was one reason why Craig didn't have any desire to talk to Dave right now; for God knows what reason, Craig had stopped taking his meds a couple days before coming to Vegas, and he knew that Dave would pick up on it in a heartbeat. That guy was perceptive as fuck.

All of a sudden, Craig something warm on his arm, and he snapped back into the moment. Two large brown eyes were staring at him, as two dainty, slightly shaky hands crept up to cup his face.

 _Brown eyes._

This was all wrong.

Before Craig could pull away, Kayla's lips were on his, kissing him roughly. This was not what this kiss was supposed to feel like. He had never been kissed like this before.

 _Wrong wrong wrong._

One of Kayla's hands quickly moved to his crotch, startling Craig as it wriggled into his boxers, stroking him energetically. _Too_ energetically.

Clearly Craig didn't in fact need to be the aggressor in this situation.

But Craig _did_ need to be the aggressor. The fantasy he had concocted about this encounter wasn't going to work otherwise. And if he couldn't live the fantasy, what was he even doing here?

Kayla pulled down his boxers and kept stroking him, practically rubbing him raw, but her movements began to slow. Craig was too tired to push her away, instead waiting for her to realize that nothing was going to happen here. Eventually, she pulled back her hand, staring down at his soft dick with a look that conveyed both confusion and shame.

Craig inched away and yanked his boxers back up to hide his failure. He couldn't face her, but he could see out of the corner of his vision that her face was growing increasingly red.

"It's not you," he muttered. "I promise."

"Then what is it?"

Craig didn't know what to say. He could tell her the real reason, but he wasn't even ready yet to admit it to himself. Yes, he would tell her the truth—just not the whole truth. "I'm gay."

Her eyes widened. "You are?"

"Yeah."

She furrowed her brow. "You don't seem gay."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "How does someone 'seem gay'?"

"I don't know. You're right." She sighed, covering her face with her hands.

Now that she was no longer looking at him, he worked up the courage to get out of bed. As he started putting on his pants, he could hear the bedsheets rustling behind him.

"You don't have to go," Kayla suggested. "We can just…cuddle, if you want. Not in a sexual way or anything."

Logical Craig was about to say no, but Craig, the version who was present right now, hadn't felt a warm body in a long time. It wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. In fact, it could be a very good thing. "Okay."

He slid his body back under the covers and wrapped his arm around her mechanically. She lay her cheek on his chest and curled up against him, her breath warming his skin. He could feel his body relaxing. For the first time in a while, Craig felt…comfortable. And safe. Instinctively, he ran his fingers through her choppy blond hair, a familiar sensation that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

After several peaceful minutes of this, he felt her open her mouth to speak. "Is this about your friend?" she asked softly.

He could feel his chest tightening, his fingers halting their movement. "My friend?"

"The brown-haired one."

Craig exhaled deeply, only now realizing that he had been holding his breath. "You mean Clyde."

"Yeah. Do you like him?"

"Clyde? No," he chortled. "What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you two had a thing. I noticed the way he looks at you."

"How does he look at me?"

"He looks up to you, like he admires you."

Her response caught Craig by surprise. He pulled away a little. "Clyde doesn't have any reason to look up to _me_."

She shrugged. "You know him better than I do. All I'm saying is that he's constantly looking at you like he wants your approval, like you're his leader or something. Like you call the shots."

He thought of old Craig and Clyde, from another lifetime, recalling Clyde's consistent acquiescence to Craig's choice of which movie to watch, which video game to play, which pizza toppings to order. "I guess I did at one point," he mumbled, "a long time ago."

"Well, old habits die hard."

Craig was staring up at the ceiling pondering this when he heard a buzz on the bedside table next to him. His phone. He reached over and grabbed it. It was a text from Clyde.

" _how u doin"_

Right then and there, Craig made a promise to himself to talk to Clyde more, not necessarily about anything serious, but just in general. He didn't realize how much he had missed Clyde until, oh, right about now. _"fine,"_ he typed back. _"shouldn't you be fcking someone rn?"_

" _ya we were making out n then she had to go to the bathroom"_

Craig rolled his eyes. _"ok but why are you texting me?"_

" _to find out y *u* arent fcking someone rn!"_

" _how do you know i'm not?"_

" _im in the living room n i dont hear anything coming out of ur room!"_

" _how do you know i don't fuck silently?"_

" _many games of 7 min in heaven"_

"… _elaborate?"_

" _o plz do u kno how many times at those parties_ _i was sitting RITE OUTSIDE the closet when u n tweek fucked? u were loud as shit"_

Craig paused, unsure how to respond, but Clyde immediately followed up.

 _"shit man im sry, idk y i said that"_

Craig felt a pang in his heart. _"it's okay. really."_ And it really was.

Just as he was about to send another text, he heard a woman's voice screaming from the bedroom next door.

"OH, LEO!"

Craig heard a burst of male laughter coming from the living room. His brow knitted in confusion. _Leo?_

As realization dawned on him, he couldn't help himself. He started laughing hysterically, and the laughter from outside the bedroom grew stronger in reply. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more. He couldn't stop laughing. He caught Kayla watching him with concern, but he still didn't stop. She waited until he was finally done, finishing up his last sputters and wheezes, before cutting in. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh all day," she remarked. "Jesus. It sounded like you were holding in that one for a while. Maybe you need to laugh more often."

Craig wiped a tear from his eye, a residual smile still on his face. "Yeah, I do. I'm working on it."

* * *

*This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!*

Want to reach me privately? You can PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!


	7. Chapter 7

Since this chapter sorta-kinda drops a bombshell, I would love to hear your thoughts on the crazy shit that went down at South Park High. Whose side are you on in this whole situation? Also, should Kyle pursue Wendy? Let me know what you think! :)

* * *

When the guys got back to the hotel, the night was still young—or so Stan said.

Personally, Kyle was ready flop down on his bed and watch some TV, but Stan wanted to go out. Contrary to what Kyle had told everyone, the Lake Mead cruise had not in fact had an open bar. Faced with the option of splurging for flat beer or subpar cocktails mixed by a bartender who seemed to be on death's door, none of the guys had ordered enough liquor to get drunk, and Stan didn't want the night to end without getting at least a _little_ shit-faced. Kyle understood; despite coming across as outgoing, deep down Stan was still the introverted, sensitive kid he always was, and he wouldn't dare go out without the support of some liquid courage.

"Come on, Kyle!" Stan whined, leaning against the doorway of their room. "It won't be as fun without you!"

Kyle didn't doubt that. Seeing that Butters, Clyde, and Craig were busy, and Kenny had stalked off somewhere right after they got back to the hotel, Stan was planning on going out with Token, Tweek, and Cartman, a bizarre amalgam that Kyle predicted would lead to either an incredibly boring and awkward night, or something really strange. After spending the evening defending himself against the verbal assaults of seven guys who were disappointed about the cruise and sober enough to be angry about it, Kyle wasn't in the mood to join Stan on his confusing Friday night adventure.

Still, Kyle couldn't help feeling a little uneasy that he wasn't going. As a kid, Kyle was always the more gregarious of the two boys, and, unlike Stan, he was able to spend time away from his best friend—be it for several weeks at Jewish sleepaway camp, or for half an hour during lunchtime at a different table in the cafeteria—without freaking out. But over time Kyle got accustomed to Stan's clinginess, and he started growing dependent on Stan's dependency. It got worse once they got to New York; even though they were attending college in the same city (hell, the same _borough_ ), they were no longer going to the same school, and taking the same classes, and making the same friends. Kyle and Stan still hung out all the time, but the time apart somehow only increased Kyle's reliance on his friend. Hence why he opted to live on the same block as Stan and Bebe, even though, while their incomes allowed them to live there quite comfortably, Kyle could barely pay rent each month with his measly nonprofit salary.

Before his anxiety about his friendship with Stan had the opportunity to spiral, Kyle got a text from Wendy. _"Please tell me you're free to hang out…"_

Kyle hurriedly typed a response, trying not to grin in front of Stan. _"Yes. What's going on?"_

" _A lot. I'll explain in person. Can I come to your room?"_

He could feel the color rising up his neck and into his cheeks. He shook his head and steeled his emotions. "Sorry, dude," he said to Stan, trying to sound tired. "I'm just not up to it tonight. But you should totally go out and have fun."

Stan looked a little pained, but nodded. "Okay. Let me know if you want me to bring back some food or anything." After they exchanged smiles, Stan was gone.

Kyle turned back to his phone. _"I'm in 1322. Come over whenever"_

" _Be there in 2 min."_

 _Two minutes?_ Kyle ran to the mirror and groaned. His curls were a little matted to his forehead, and he spotted an angry pimple growing on his chin. He didn't have enough time to fix any of that, so instead he busied himself fixing up his and Stan's beds. There was no way he was letting Wendy into a messy room.

He didn't have to wait long. True to her word, Wendy knocked on his door just under two minutes later. The sound sent color shooting up his neck again. He leapt up and opened the door with lightning speed, desperate for even just three extra seconds of seeing her.

"Hi, Kyle," she said quietly. _God dammit._ She looked positively radiant. Okay, that wasn't exactly true; she actually looked quite upset. But to Kyle, she was still beautiful, splotchy red face and all.

He gestured for her to come in. "Are you okay?" he asked, his brow knitted with concern. She looked like she might have been crying, but he couldn't tell, and he didn't want to ask.

"No." She sighed and sat down cross-legged on Stan's bed. "I'm having a horrible night."

Kyle sat on his own bed, wishing the two beds were a few feet closer together. "No way it's worse than mine."

"You think so, huh? Well, get this: in my infinite wisdom, as Bebe's maid of honor, I decided it would be a great idea to bring all the ladies to a comedy show tonight. Of course, although I watched several clips of this highly-rated, seemingly innocuous comedian on YouTube before I bought tickers to his show, what does he end up talking about all night? Women. And no, he doesn't just tell jokes about women. He tells _sexist_ jokes about women. For an _hour_. Like, really fucking sexist jokes."

"That sucks."

"Don't I know it! Then the show ends, and Bebe and her friends are pissed off, and _I'm_ pissed off, and all they want to do is go out and drink. Except we have dinner plans. But that doesn't matter, because it's Bebe's weekend. So she picks some seedy bar and we all go out, and now a bunch of them are in some guys' hotel rooms."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "And Bebe?"

"Don't be a jackass. Of course she's faithful to Stan." Wendy shook her head. "That being said, she still brought a bunch of random people up to our room. They're playing dumb drinking games as we speak." She buried her face in her hands.

Kyle wasn't sure of the protocol for such a situation. As a friend, was he supposed to comfort her in some way? Put his hand on her shoulder? Hug her? Rub her back and say "there, there"? Somehow those things seemed a tad too intimate—too intimate for their relatively new friendship, that is. None of those things were anywhere close to as intimate as Kyle wanted.

Before he could get past his self-doubt enough to actually do something, Wendy had jumped off Stan's bed and started rummaging through the mini-bar. "There we go," she muttered, pulling out a miniature and downing it in one gulp.

"Wendy!" Kyle exclaimed, leaping up. He had seen her consume alcohol plenty of times before, but not with such reckless abandon. He walked over to her and grabbed the tiny bottle out of her hand. That's when he realized that she was already drunk. His eyes narrowed. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Just some shots," she mumbled in response, staring him straight in the face.

"Of what?"

"Vodka. Same as this."

"How many?"

"Some."

"You're lying."

"'Some' isn't an exact number, Kyle."

He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a deep sigh. "What is the exact number of shots you have had tonight?"

"Three."

"Before this one?"

"Yeah."

The most Kyle had ever seen Wendy drink was five shots, but she had sipped them over the course of many hours, as all the guests at Stan's and Bebe's engagement party left except for Wendy and Kyle, and the four of them talked until three in the morning. By the time Stan and Bebe were ready to go to bed, Kyle had to gently coax Wendy out into the hallway, which was difficult, given that she kept laughing and running back into Stan's apartment. She hadn't been blackout drunk, but she was tipsy enough to be annoying.

But that was back before Kyle was head-over-heels for Wendy, so now maybe he wouldn't find Tipsy Wendy as annoying as he did before.

Tipsy Wendy slipped past Kyle and flopped down on his bed. " _Ugh_ ," she sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm a terrible maid of honor."

He perched at the edge of the bed. "No, you're not, Wendy."

"Yes, I am, Kyle. It's Bebe's weekend, and I ruined it. Now she's in the hands of God-knows-who, doing God-knows-what, and I'm over here getting drunk by myself."

 _By myself?_ Kyle had forgotten that after she had gotten over her case of the giggles, post-engagement party Tipsy Wendy had started whining about she would be alone forever, and she would never find love like what Stan and Bebe had. No amount of consolation had gotten her to shut up about it. Now it appeared that tonight they had already progressed to the whiny stage of Tipsy Wendy's descent into full-on inebriation, skipping the giggly stage entirely.

Alright, so maybe she would be annoying, after all.

Eager to placate her before her complaints devolved into blubbering, Kyle ignored the anxious voice inside his head and lay down beside her. "Do you want to hear how _my_ night is going?"

"Okay," she said, with a hint of interest in her voice.

And so he regaled her with tales of what had happened that night: about how he was forced to endure almost an hour of Cartman being an asshole in the car, how for some reason he constantly found himself having to defend Stan, how Craig and Tweek avoided eye contact for much of dinner and made it awkward for everyone else, and, of course, how the entire cruise was a steaming pile of shit.

By the end of the story, he had gotten a few chuckles out of Wendy, and even a laugh or two. "Alright, you win," she finally conceded, propping herself up on an elbow and smiling at him. "Your night was worse."

He smiled back at her. His face was so close to hers. He swallowed down his urge to move just a little bit closer. "I don't know if that makes me win, but I'll take it."

"Jesus Christ, it sounds like everyone's been acting like a bunch of high schoolers."

"You can say that again."

"Like Cartman… Why did you even invite him? Obviously he's going to be the same person he was when he was a kid. Can you imagine Cartman maturing?"

"It's for Stan's sake. I think he had some fantasy that he would see Cartman and they would instantly be friends again. I guess that wasn't a super weird idea, since it's not like we all had a falling out or anything. You know, we kind of just drifted apart from Cartman after we all went off to college." Kyle sighed. "I don't know. It just seems like Cartman is busy with his own shit. He can't be bothered with rekindling a friendship with Stan."

"Not too busy to rekindle something with you," Wendy said pointedly.

Kyle felt his cheeks grow hot. "He's not rekindling anything. He's just antagonizing me."

"Same difference. That's how he bonds with people, Kyle. He antagonizes them."

"Whatever," Kyle replied brusquely, eager to get off the topic of Cartman. "I can ignore him for the next couple days. What worries me more is Kenny."

"Because he's making fun of Stan?"

"Yeah, and he's not doing it in a friendly way. He seems genuinely upset at Stan, and at me, to a lesser extent. But he's being so cryptic about it."

Wendy tapped her finger on her chin. "Hmm… My guess is that he's still hung up on Bebe."

Kyle frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know, he's probably still into her. And mad at Stan for stealing her—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Kyle interjected, scrambling to a seated position. "Since when does Kenny like Bebe?"

"Um, since, like, sophomore year of high school…" She pushed herself up and resumed her cross-legged pose. "Did you really not know that Kenny liked Bebe?" Kyle watched as it slowly dawned on Wendy that no, he really did not know. Her eyes widened. "Wait, Stan never told you?"

"Told me _what_?"

"Oh my god." Her hands flew to her mouth. "You're literally years behind."

"What didn't Stan tell me!"

Wendy took a deep breath and stared at him dead in the eye. "Kyle, I'm going to tell you what happened, but you have to promise not to breathe a word to Stan." She placed a hand on Kyle's knee. His felt his leg twitch under her warm touch, and he tried to control it, but he couldn't. "Understood?"

"Understood," he said softly.

"Good. You know how Bebe and Stan got together, right?"

"Of course. He asked her to junior prom, and then they started dating."

"Right. But Kenny asked her first."

"He _did_?"

"Yes."

"And that's why he's mad at Stan?"

Wendy pursed her lips. "Look, let me just start from the beginning. Kenny liked Bebe for a long time. I don't know if you remember Clyde's sixteenth birthday party, when we all played seven minutes in heaven? That game where you go into the closet and make out with someone?"

"I don't know if I remember exactly that night, but I remember playing that game, like, a thousand times, because Stan and Kenny were so into it."

" _Well_ ," Wendy pronounced, hands clasped, "on that night, Bebe and Kenny went into the closet and made out. Apparently, sparks were flying or something, because Kenny really fell for her—"

Kyle held up his hands. "Sorry to stop you again, but, how do you know all this?"

"Bebe told me."

"Yeah, but how did Bebe know?"

"Kenny told her how he felt about her, duh."

"Really?" Kyle was dumbfounded. He hadn't had a fucking clue.

"Of course," Wendy replied, looking slightly amused. "He was flirting with her for weeks. Then over the summer before junior year, they hung out a few times, and one thing led to another… They weren't dating or anything, but they hooked up. And then in the fall, he told her that he liked her, and I mean _really_ liked her."

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in Kyle's mind. "Wait, the summer before junior year? That's when Stan started being super into Bebe."

"Okay, and do you remember exactly when he first told you he was interested in Bebe?"

"I don't know. It was after some party…" He did a double take. "Holy shit. I do remember! It was Clyde's sixteenth birthday! During that stupid game! Stan made out with her too, right? God, he wouldn't shut up about it the next day. He thought she was such a good kisser."

"That sounds about right," Wendy said, nodding. "So Stan told you. Did he tell anyone else?"

"Yeah, he definitely told Kenny and Cartman. I remember us all making fun of Stan, saying that he was going to fall in love with her. You know how hard Stan falls when he falls in love."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, all too well."

Kyle gazed at her, the wheels in his brain turning ever so slowly. "But you're telling me that while Stan liked Bebe, Kenny liked Bebe?"

"Yup."

"But Kenny never told us…" he murmured.

"Well…" She averted her eyes. "That's not entirely true."

Kyle blinked. "What."

"He did tell Stan, right before junior prom."

" _What?_ "

"Kenny knew that Stan liked Bebe and had been flirting with her and stuff, and he knew that Stan wanted to ask her to the dance."

"Yeah, Stan had been planning that for a while."

"I guess at a certain point, Kenny was confident that Bebe liked him back, so he told Stan not to ask her to junior prom—"

"—and Stan did it anyway," Kyle finished with a sigh.

"Exactly."

"Stan never told me about that."

"Why would he?" Wendy snorted. "He knew one of his best friends had been in love with this girl for months, and he didn't give a shit. He was just looking out for himself. That's not exactly something you want to broadcast to the world."

"So why didn't Kenny just ask her to the dance, too?"

"He was going to. I don't know if Stan hid this from you, as well, but when Stan asked Bebe to the dance, she told him she had to think about it. She didn't give him an answer immediately."

"That sounds familiar, I think."

"Instead, she went straight to Kenny and said that if Kenny wanted to go to the dance with her, she would say no to Stan. So now Kenny knew that Stan had asked her, and he just flipped out. Bebe ended up getting it out of him, you know, that he had told Stan not to ask her to the dance, and that really pissed her off."

"Why?"

"Kyle!" Wendy exclaimed with a huff. "Bebe isn't a toy or something that Kenny can just claim for himself! He had no right to control who Bebe decided to go to some stupid dance with. But Kenny didn't really get that. He was all into the whole 'bro code' thing, and he felt like Stan had betrayed him by asking Bebe."

"So…" Kyle said slowly, "Bebe got mad at Kenny, so she said yes to Stan instead?"

"Yeah."

"And Kenny blamed Stan for what happened?"

"Probably."

Kyle felt his shoulders slump. "And that's why Kenny stopped hanging out with us." He finally had a reason for Kenny's behavior. It wasn't a reason he would have ever predicted, and if he was being honest with himself, it made him feel really fucking sad. "I guess Kenny thinks I knew about what Stan did and just went along with it, huh?" he mumbled, staring vacantly down at the striped bedsheets, the parallel lines blurring and crisscrossing in front of him.

He could see Wendy nodding out the corner of his eye, but he didn't dare look up. He felt like if he saw her face, sympathetic, pitying, even, he might just break down. _Fuck_ , he thought, trying to blink back tears. _I'm turning into Stan._

Try as he might, he couldn't stop the inevitable. One drop of salty fluid escaped his tear ducts and ran down his face, lingering at the tip of his nose before plopping onto his hand unceremoniously. Blushing hard, he sniffed and wiped his eye with the back of his already-damp hand. "I don't get why Kenny wouldn't just tell us that he liked Bebe in the first place. Then Stan would've backed off."

He finally glanced up at Wendy, only to find her giving him a funny look. "Would he have, though? Stan has always been a pretty self-absorbed guy, especially when he was younger. And he has you to back him up. If you guys had been in charge in charge of deciding whether Stan or Kenny had the right to go after Bebe, Stan would have won, hands-down. Besides, Stan's _Stan_. He's the boy next door. Girls just…fall for him. Kenny probably felt like competing with Stan for Bebe's attention would have been futile."

It pained him to acknowledge it, but Wendy wasn't wrong. Still, even if Kenny's decision to lie to his friends had been rational, that didn't mean it was fair. And what really wasn't fair was the fallout, at least not to Kyle. All those years of friendship with Kenny—tutoring Kenny in math at the library until the blond would get distracted and start Facebook-stalking cute girls for Kyle to date; sitting on his couch with Kenny on the weekends, laughing hysterically at bad movies while Cartman had wrestling practice and Stan had practice for whatever-the-hell sport he happened to be playing at the moment; betting Kenny a Big Mac that he could beat him at pick-up basketball, and winning every time, losing count once Kenny owed him about thirty burgers, but never cashing in… Those moments were lost in time, _poof_ , because of another moment, a really stupid, fucked-up moment. A moment that Kyle wasn't even a part of. A moment that Kyle never found out about. A moment that his best friend hid from him, but that _he_ was being blamed for. Kyle couldn't tell if he was upset because he lost Kenny, or because of the complete injustice of it all.

Sighing deeply, Kyle let himself fall back against the mountain of pillows on the bed. He could feel another tear well up in his eye, but before it had the chance to trickle down the path of the previous one, Kyle felt a warmth spread throughout his body, as Wendy's head came to rest on his shoulder. He didn't know whether it was because she was drunk, or because she felt sorry for him, but either way he was surprised; Wendy rarely showed such overt displays of affection (he blamed years of Stan's puking for her disinclination to physical touch), and today she had touched him _twice_. First a hug in the lobby, and now this, an even more intimate gesture.

Thanks to endless childhood ribbing courtesy of Cartman, Kyle had wondered quite a few times in his life whether he was gay, mostly during moments when Stan would smile at him and cause him to develop a bad case of the warm-and-fuzzies. But this was different. This warmth was electric, and more hot than warm. And he knew for a fact that the warmth he felt around Stan was never accompanied by a warm dick.

Kyle shifted slightly on the bed, trying to stop his jeans from feeling so damn tight. It didn't work. He drew his knees in close to his chest, creating a ripple of fabric at the crotch of his pants that he hoped would hid what was going on down there. Something about getting an erection with Wendy in such close proximity made him feel dirty, and not the good kind of dirty. Wendy was so picture-perfect, and something as vulgar as the ugly throbbing thing in his pants would tarnish that picture. She was so wholesome.

Or not.

All of a sudden, Wendy's hand was hovering above the hem of his pants, and before he knew what was going on, it started moving slowly up his shin. Kyle panicked. It was if every synapse in his brain stopped firing at exactly the same time. What does one do when a beautiful woman is reaching for your supposedly-well-hidden erection?

But she wasn't. As soon as her hand touched his knee, it reversed course, gliding slowly back down towards his ankle. She wasn't trying to seduce him; she was merely attempting the same thing Kyle had pondered only five minutes prior: she wanted to console her friend. Unfortunately, in her hazy, drunken state, she didn't realize that stroking Kyle's leg was just a _little_ bit awkward.

Not that he was complaining.

"Hey, Kyle?" Wendy said breathily, her lips inches away from his neck.

A chill ran up his spine. "Yeah?"

"Do you ever think that the universe has been unfairly good to Stan?"

Kyle didn't need her to clarify. He had thought about that plenty of times. Stan had found his soulmate in high school. Stan had gotten mediocre grades and somehow was accepted to a top-tier research university. Stan had attended one networking event his senior fall and somehow landed a job within a few weeks. Hell, Stan barely even got sick—Kyle couldn't remember the last time Stan had the sniffles.

Kenny's admonitions from earlier that day started bouncing around his head: that Kyle was _feeding Stan Marsh's illusion that the world revolves around him_ , that _what Stan wants, Stan gets_ …

Kyle shut his eyes as a wave of nausea overtook him, finally distracting him from the soothing motion of Wendy's hand. After Stan's betrayal, it was no wonder that Kenny would feel hurt all over again each time Kyle rushed to Stan's defense. He was complicit in Kenny's pain, and it hurt him just to think about it.

Replaying Kenny's behavior over the course of the day, Kyle realized that Cartman probably knew what Stan had done. Every time Kenny had mocked Stan, Cartman had joined in. Kyle's chest tightened, comprehending just how pathetic it was that Kenny had told Cartman about what Stan had done, but that Stan hadn't shown the same courtesy to Kyle. Obviously Kenny and Cartman had been close friends in high school, but Kyle thought that he and Stan had been closer. Evidently not.

"You okay?"

Kyle snapped back to the situation at hand—Wendy's head off his shoulder, her face turned towards him, her eyes piercing his with a look of concern, her hand paused on his knee—and nodded ever so slowly, almost in a zombie-like state. "I'm fine," he said distantly, his eyes refusing to focus on what was in front of him.

Wendy's hand was no longer on his knee. It had lifted up and landed on his jaw, as did her other hand, her palms cupping his cheeks. With a smooth swivel of her wrists, she turned his head left and right, as if examining every inch of his face. "Are you?" she asked, squinting slightly.

"Am I what?" he barely squeaked out.

"Fine. Are you fine?"

"Yeah." His cheeks burned under her touch, and all of a sudden, he couldn't remember why he wouldn't be fine. Her skin was pressed up against his, her lips close enough that if he leaned forward just enough, he could reach them. This seemed like the very definition of fine.

"You know you can tell me if you're not, right?"

Kyle wasn't sure if that was true. Tipsy—er, _Drunk_ Wendy may have meant that, but he really didn't think that regular Wendy would be interested in hearing Kyle soliloquize on the agony he felt due to the lack of love in his life, especially from one woman in particular.

"Sure," he replied uneasily.

Her hands didn't move from his cheeks. Maybe this would be the best time to tell her. After all, maybe she felt the same way, and all it would take was a little alcohol to open her up enough to admit that to him. Maybe she just needed a nudge. Maybe…

"Shit, that's me." Wendy's voice made Kyle aware of the ringtone playing from Wendy's bag. She lunged for it and pulled out her phone. "Hey, what's up? No, I just went to take a walk. Get some fresh air. Oh, okay, they're gone? Yeah, I can be there in five minutes. Great, bye." She hung up and turned to Kyle. "Duty calls!"

A knot formed in the pit of Kyle's stomach, as he realized that he only had another minute with Wendy, at best. "Bebe?"

"Yeah." Wendy hopped off the bed and strode over to the mirror, smoothing down her hair and adjusting her dress. "She finally got sick of all those morons in her room and kicked them out. Now she's just sitting at the bar feeling lonely and missing Stan, so she wants me to come hang out with her."

"Oh." Kyle's voice sounded very small, even within his own head. He got up and followed her to the door.

After he opened it and watched her step over the threshold, he was taken aback as she leaned in for a hug, softer than before, but just as warm. "Thanks, Kyle." Again, her breath did something to him. She pulled away, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. "And I meant what I said. If you ever need to talk about anything, let me know, okay?"

Even though he was about to watch her walk away, likely for the entire weekend, he couldn't help but mirror her facial expression. "I will. And the same goes for you, obviously."

Her smile broadened, almost turning into a smirk. "Obviously." That was the final thing she said before she turned and walked down the hall.

Kyle let the door close behind her. With a groan, he leaned back against it and slid down to the ground, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. _What does that even mean?_ Did Wendy like him? Was she just being silly and drunk? Or was she being a good friend? He honestly couldn't tell. And God knows how much of this conversation she would remember tomorrow morning. But what if she _did_ remember when she woke up tomorrow, and felt embarrassed by getting so close to Kyle? What if he had already fucked everything up?

It was in this moment that he desperately wanted, no, _needed_ to talk to Stan. He had hidden his feelings for Wendy from Stan for so long, given that Stan certainly would have told Bebe, who certainly would have told Wendy, but at this point, keeping the secret wasn't worth it if it was going to eat him up inside. He needed advice, and he needed advice from Stan.

But then Kyle remembered what he and Wendy had just been talking about, before she had touched his face and made his hormones go crazy, and he changed his mind.

There was only one person he wanted to talk to, and it sure as hell wasn't Stan.

* * *

*This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!*

Want to reach me privately? You can PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!


	8. Chapter 8

The motto of this chapter: Ask for more Tweek and ye shall receive more Tweek.

You know sometimes when you go into a chapter/story with a clear plan for what you're going to write about, and then that plan takes a left turn—or, rather, many left turns? Yeah, so that's what happened here... More character-building, some interesting surprises...and a Cartman & Tweek scene? (What is this universe coming to!)

Remember to R&R if you're so inclined, and enjoy! :)

* * *

It was a typical Friday night on the Las Vegas Strip: lights glimmering brilliantly in the dark, the twin smells of booze and cigarette smoke wafting through the air, familiar pop songs blasting from massive speakers hanging above the front entrance of every single resort hotel. And Cartman didn't know why he was fucking here.

After he came back from the dinner cruise, Cartman had a few options. He could have gone straight to his hotel room, alone. He could have hung out downstairs by the bar, alone. Or he could have joined Stan, Token, and Tweek on their adventure out on the town. To everyone's surprise, including his own, Cartman chose the third option. He didn't remember the last time he had spent a night away from Heidi, and, though he didn't want to admit it, the first two options made him feel a little lonely.

As he followed the others across a pedestrian bridge leading to yet another hotel, he couldn't help but stare at the crowds of people on the sidewalks down below. They looked so excited, ready for a night of drinking and partying. He spotted so many groups of college-aged friends, slapping each other on the back and laughing as they strolled down the street. Cartman felt his chest tighten slightly, and he coughed to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation. Sure, that could have been him. He could have kept talking to Stan and Kyle after high school. He could have put in more effort to make friends during college. But what would have been the point of that? Did he really need more people to hold him back from success? To criticize him? To put other people's needs over his?

No. Of course not. He was better off without that.

He turned his attention to the three guys in front of him. Stan and Token were happily chatting away, as they had been for much of the evening. The sight made Cartman's mouth twist into a smile. _Kyle would be pissed_ , he thought, closing his eyes for a second to imagine the fiery, red-haired Jew yelling at Stan and realizing that Stan wasn't the perfect guy he always thought he was. _I can be there to pick up the pieces._

"Okay, guys, we're here!" Stan's voice snapped him out of his dream state. They had stepped into a massive complex, which, unlike any of the other hotels they had walked through on their way here, was themed like some kind of ancient Greco-Roman citadel. (The casino, however, was indistinguishable from the ones in all the other hotels.) Cartman followed the guys until they had exited the casino, and a massive line of people came into view. They were all waiting to go through a set of imposing wood-paneled doors.

"Ooh, I've heard about this place!" Token said excitedly, as they approached the front of the line. "Don't big DJ's play here?"

"I think so," Stan said. "I don't think anyone famous is playing tonight, though. Looks like the cover charge isn't too high. Which reminds me… Wait here a second."

Cartman watched in confusion as Stan skipped the line and went straight up to one of the bouncers. He couldn't tell if Stan was slipping the guy some money, but whatever Stan did, it worked. The bouncer looked up at Cartman, Token, and Tweek and nodded at them curtly.

Tweek's eyes widened. "How did he _do_ that?"

"Beats me," Token responded, clearly in awe.

Stan beckoned them over, and they complied. "See those five girls behind us in line?" he said, trying to keep his voice low amidst the loud music and conversations around them. "We need to bring them in with us. They won't let a group of just guys in."

Cartman looked at the women. They were wearing tight cocktail dresses and the highest heels he had ever seen. One of them caught him looking and wrinkled her nose. He frowned and turned back to Stan. "Seriously?"

Stan shrugged. "I know. It's weird. We just need to walk in with them, and then we can ditch them—"

"Dude," Tweek interjected, starting to twitch perceptibly. "What are we supposed to do? Just walk up to them? Look at them! Why would _they_ even want to talk to _us_?"

Token placed his hand gingerly on Tweek's shoulder. "It's fine. Stan and I can talk to them, right, Stan?"

"I can, too," Cartman piped up. The other three guys shot him looks of surprise. "What, you don't think I can do it?"

"No, that's not it…" Stan trailed off. "I just…didn't think you'd want to."

"Right," Cartman said sarcastically. "It's definitely not like you and Token think you're so hot and can just pick up any girl you want to."

"Come on, dude—"

"Whatever." He waved them off. "I didn't want to talk to those bitches anyway."

Token's eyes narrowed. "The only person here who's being a bitch is you, Cartman."

"Hey!" the bouncer barked in their direction. "Do you have four female guests, or not?"

"Sorry, give us one second," Stan called back to him. Glaring at Cartman, Stan grabbed Token's arm and pulled him over to the five women.

Cartman glanced at Tweek. The poor fucker was the twitchiest he had looked all day. "You okay?" Cartman asked hesitantly, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Tweek responded, a little too loudly and abruptly. "It's just all this shit, man. The lights and music and stuff. I know it's a party, but why does it have to be so much?"

"Beats me," Cartman said, struggling to come up with a better answer.

Honestly, he didn't know what the fuck to say to Tweek. He barely knew the guy. Same with Token, for that matter. The only time he had really interacted with them in high school was back when they would show up with the rest of their annoying friends to cheer on Craig at wrestling matches. They were _so_ annoying; Cartman remembered the first time he didn't hear them in the crowd, didn't have his ears subjected to Tweek screeching and Clyde chanting and threatening to moon the competition. He didn't know why they stopped coming to the matches, but he didn't care. Craig always thought he was such hot shit, just because he could get kids to fearfully hand him their lunch money, and because he was in detention constantly for flipping off his teachers, and because he made Scott Malkinson cry at least once a week. Evidently his little posse eventually learned to see through that bullshit, because by the time Craig and Cartman ascended to the position of co-captain of the wrestling team, the corner of the stands usually occupied by Craig's fanboys was empty, and remained so for the rest of their senior year.

Within a minute, Stan and Token had, unsurprisingly, convinced the women to pretend to be part of their party. The bouncer opened the door and ushered them inside.

After walking down a series of orange-lit hallways, they reached a massive room. It was dark. And loud. And chock-full of drunk sweaty dancing people. Cartman was young, in the prime of his life, the perfect age for partying, but he wasn't one to frequent these kind of venues—or any venues, for that matter. He barely had a chance to take it all in before he noticed Stan and Token walking away. Unlike him, they looked at home in this atmosphere. "Figures," he muttered under his breath. He poked Tweek and jerked a thumb in their direction. "Come on."

He and Tweek followed them up a flight of stairs, which led up to an equally dark and loud area. Tweek looked positively nauseous. Cartman hoped the guy wouldn't puke all over his nice shirt.

After traversing some more hallways, they reached a swanky terrace. Although it was still loud, the fresh air made everything more bearable. Cartman stopped, letting his eyes focus on what was going on around him. Some people were dancing, some people were drinking, some people were standing and chatting, and almost everyone was pretty goddamn attractive. He felt dozens of eyes staring at him. He ducked his head down until he caught up to the other guys, who had already nabbed seats near the bar. It was only then that he noticed that the women from earlier were gone.

"How'd you get rid of the chicks?" he asked, looking around.

Stan held up his left hand with a smile. A thin silver band encircled his ring finger. "Flashed my engagement ring."

"Isn't the girl supposed to be the one wearing an engagement ring?" Token asked, brow knitted in confusion.

"Normally, yeah, but Bebe thought it was only fair for both of us to wear one. Mine doesn't have a diamond or anything, but still."

Token nudged him in the side with his elbow. "Wow, look at Mr. Feminist over here."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "More like Mr. Pussy, letting his bitch boss him around."

Stan rolled his eyes right back. "I'm choosing to ignore that. Ready for drinks?"

"I've been ready since my plane landed twelve hours ago," Token chuckled.

"What do you guys want? I can go to the bar and grab stuff."

"Jack on the rocks," Cartman said flatly.

"Jack Daniels, really?" Tweek snorted. He was finally starting to look more relaxed. "What are you, sixty years old?"

Cartman was taken aback. _Who does this guy think he is?_ "For your information, Tweek, anyone can drink Jack Daniels. That is, unless you're only making enough money to afford shitty beer, like a college student. I wouldn't be surprised, looking at your clothes."

"Dude." Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar gesture that Cartman hadn't seen since high school. "Can you just…not? We're here to have fun. Can you cool it with the insults every thirty seconds?"

"Fine," Cartman grumbled.

First Kyle had gotten mad at him, and now Stan. Had they expected him to be some complacent doormat? What did they want him to do when people were obnoxious, just roll over and take it? It was as if they didn't know him at all. As if they hadn't spent two-thirds of their lives with him. He gritted his teeth. His jaw ached; he must have been doing that a lot this evening.

Token ignored him and turned to Tweek. "What do you want? Same as usual?"

Tweek nodded. "Yeah…" Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Oh, dude! Remember that place we went to a few weeks ago, that played all that shitty trap music? Can you see if they can make it like that bartender did?"

Token broke out into a smile. "Word. With the little umbrella and everything?"

"Yeah."

"On it. Stan, I'll help you carry the drinks." And off they went to the bar, Stan and Token, like best-fucking-douchebag-buddies.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Cartman leaned across the table to get closer to Tweek. "Alright, twitchy, what the fuck is your deal?"

Tweek blanched at Cartman's proximity and edged away. " _Ah!_ What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ , first you're super quiet all night, and you come in here looking like you're going to pass out. Then, out of nowhere, you try to mess with me, and it turns out you go _clubbing_ with _Token_?"

"What's your problem, man?" Tweek yelped. "That I go to clubs, or that I said something you didn't like?"

Cartman blinked. "I… I don't have a problem! I just don't get you!"

"You don't have to get me!"

"Fine, you're right!" Cartman leaned back and folded his arms. "You're just weird, and that's all there is to it."

They sat without speaking for a minute. Tweek's eyes were on him the whole time, staring. He broke the silence. "Why are you so pissed off at everybody?"

"I'm not," Cartman scoffed. "Maybe I'm just pissed off at you because you're annoying me."

"No, you're pissed off at the world. I remember, you used to be like that even when we were little kids. You were always yelling at me. All the way up to high school, it didn't change. Craig used to complain about it when you guys were on the wrestling team. He said that even when you were in a good mood, you were still a jerk to people."

"Craig," Cartman spat, "doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about it." His jaw was starting to ache again.

"And you're still a jerk to him now! I saw the way you've been talking to him all day. Just because you're his boss, it doesn't mean you get to be a…a tyrant!"

"Why do you care so much about Craig? What, are you guys still boning or something?"

All the color drained from Tweek's face, like the energy was being drained out of him. But he started to twitch more. "No. But that's none of your business."

"You're right. I don't need to know, or want to know, what a couple of fags are doing in their spare time."

In a flash, Tweek's eyes were ablaze. "Don't you _ever_ talk about us like that again, you— _ah!_ — homophobic piece of shit!"

Cartman scrambled to his feet. "Ay! You can't call me that!"

Tweek stood up and glowered at him. "Give me one reason I can't!"

Cartman hesitated for just a moment, but it was a moment too long.

He could see Tweek's rage start to dissipate.

"Oh," Tweek said softly, slowly lowering himself back onto the bench.

"What, 'oh'?" Cartman demanded. He felt a bead of sweat forming on his temple. "There's nothing to 'oh' about."

Tweek sat there, barely twitching, his eyes shifting back and forth uncomfortably. They finally landed back on him. That motherfucking stare returned.

Cartman seethed. He reached over and grabbed Tweek by the collar. The blonde's eyes widened. "Listen, you little spaz," Cartman said through clenched teeth, "I'm not a fag, and I never will be, you got it?"

"Let go of me!" Tweek exclaimed, pushing Cartman off. He adjusted his collar and frowned. "Cartman, I don't care about whatever shit you have going on. But if you don't stop being an asshole to Craig, I'll tell everyone."

"Tell everyone what?" Cartman said with a forced laugh. "That I'm gay? Good luck with that."

"Fine." Tweek crossed his arms tightly. "If you're not gay, then you don't care if I tell all the guys, right?"

Cartman didn't say anything. Honestly, even if he wanted to tell Tweek "the truth," he didn't know what he _would_ say. If you were a man, and you were only in love with one person, who happened to be a man, did that make you gay? He had no idea. And he didn't know who he could possibly ask about it.

"I didn't think so," Tweek continued. "And who are they going to believe? No one here—" He paused. "Hardly anyone here hates me. I can't say the same for you."

Cartman swallowed hard, but he tried to push out a smile. "What, are you blackmailing me now?" he sneered.

"Be nice to Craig, or I'm telling everyone."

"Be nice to Craig," Cartman parroted back to him. "Cool, great. I just have to be nice to your boyfriend? That's it? Jesus, you're not a very good blackmailer."

Tweek winced. "He's not my boyfriend. And I told you, I'm not trying to blackmail you. I don't care enough. I just don't want you to be an asshole to someone I love."

The sentence hung heavy in the air. It had all happened so quickly; Cartman didn't understand how the hell the two of them had gotten to this point. Within minutes, they had become acutely aware of each other's most intimate secrets. Cartman still didn't know if he could trust Tweek. He didn't know anything about the guy, except for his twitch, and his love of coffee…and apparently his love of Craig Tucker, too.

Before Tweek had time to retract his last statement, they both turned to see Stan and Token walking towards them, hands laden with drinks. They didn't seem to have heard the yelling match between Cartman and Tweek over the loud music and talking all around them. Cartman was grateful for that.

He stared at Tweek meaningfully as the other two guys set down the drinks. Tweek looked afraid. It was becoming abundantly clear that Cartman no longer needed to follow Tweek's directive to _"be nice to Craig."_ He had leverage of his own. He didn't know how useful it would be going forward, but hey, at least it would keep Tweek's fucking mouth shut.

…

The next morning, the sunbeams streaming through his window woke up Cartman bright and early. Even though he hadn't arrived back to his hotel room until one in the morning, he felt fine; unlike Stan and Token, who had downed countless shots and—you guessed it—shitty beer, Cartman had kept his drinking to a minimum, not because he was a lightweight (because obviously he wasn't), but because he never felt the need to get wasted. He didn't understand people like Stan, who were so goddamn concerned with saying or doing the wrong thing that they needed copious amounts of alcohol to feel comfortable in a social setting. Cartman certainly did not experience that problem.

Kyle had texted everyone the night before instructing them to be meet in the lobby for lunch, so Cartman had several hours to relax. Stretching his arms out on either side of his torso, he felt a weird sensation course through him, as his left arm stroked the bedsheet. There was nothing there. Not that he expected something, or someone, to be there.

Rather, not that he _should_ have expected someone to be there. Heidi was asleep in their bed at home, curled up on the left side where she always lay, hogging the covers. Cartman kicked out his left leg, exploring the emptiness, relishing the free space to move.

The weird feeling didn't go away.

He turned his head. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell her hair, the sweet scent of her Granny Smith apple shampoo.

 _I'm just not used to this_ , he told himself. _That's it. By Sunday, I'll love having this bed all to myself, and it'll be so hard to go home to that bitch._

That bitch, who right about now would be planting a kiss on his forehead and calling him to the kitchen for French toast drenched in maple syrup, or waffles browned nicely and piled high with whipped cream, or pancakes with chocolate chips in the shape of a heart.

 _Fuck._ Now he was starving. Cartman grabbed his phone off the bedside table and saw several missed Skype calls from Heidi. He vaguely remembered making her a promise before he got on the plane to call her the next morning at some time, but— _Shit. Time zone difference._

He opened the texting app to reveal a litany of concerned-looking emojis.

" _Babe? You ok? [crying face emoji]"_

Cartman rolled his eyes and punched out a quick response.

" _Just woke up, call u soon"_

Getting ready took longer than expected, given that he had an extra task at hand. The next steps were quick: put on a collared shirt and some slacks and head downstairs to the deli attached to the lobby. Once he was seated with a coffee and some muffins, he took a deep breath, stuck in his earbuds, and opened the Skype app, anticipating a squeal.

Even before the image was able to buffer properly, he heard as loud a squeal as he could have ever imagined.

"Aaah! What did you do!"

The picture came into focus. Her dainty hands were hovering over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. He expected to cringe and groan at her reaction, but his composure crumpled, a smile breaking out across his face. "You like it?"

"It looks so good, babe!" She clapped her hands together. Now he was able to see just how much makeup she was wearing. Come to think of it, she was dressed pretty well, too. "What make you shave it off?"

He rubbed his bare chin and upper lip, so unaccustomed to the sensation of skin-on-skin. "I just, you know… I thought it was time for a change."

She leaned in closer to the camera and squinted at him. "Did you just shave it this morning? I saw the pictures from last night, and you still had your facial hair."

"Yeah, I—" He froze. "What pictures?"

"Stan posted them on Instagram. You guys were on a boat—"

"Seriously?" he snapped. "You're friends with Stan on Instagram?"

She shrank back from the camera. "I'm friends with a lot of people from South Park on social media—"

"What, so you just sit there like an idiot and stare at Stan's shitty photos? That's what you spend your time doing when I'm away? What, 'cause he's so ripped or something?"

"Eric," she said softly, "I was looking at pictures of _you_. I… I miss you."

Cartman felt his balled fists slowly loosen. He hadn't realized they were even clenched in the first placed. "You do?"

"Of course I do," she said, biting her lip. He knew she was trying to be seductive, trying to arouse him, but the warm sensation he felt was in his chest, not in his crotch. Right now, all he wanted was to reach through the camera and wrap his arms around her—or, better yet, have her arms wrap around him.

Maybe it was because he was feeling lonely, but Cartman experienced a rare urge to issue her an apology for telling her off.

Before he could do so, Heidi's eyes lit up. "Oh my God. Is that Kyle back there?"

Cartman whipped around. Sure enough, there was Kyle, walking towards him from the front of the deli. Kyle nodded in greeting.

Cartman ignored him and turned back to Heidi, furiously wiping his brow. "Uh, I don't think so, Heidi—"

"Don't be silly, babe. That's definitely Kyle. Hi, Kyle! Oh, can he not hear me?"

"Um—"

"Pull out your headphones and turn up the volume."

With a sigh, Cartman yanked his earbuds out of the headphone jack, just in time for Kyle to reach his table.

"Hey, Cartman," Kyle said simply.

"Hi, Kyle!" Heidi repeated, louder this time.

Kyle blinked and looked down at the phone. "Is that Heidi?"

"Yes," Cartman grumbled.

"Sweet, dude! Hey, Heidi! What's up?"

"Nothing, I'm— Eric, can you tilt the phone up so I can see him?" Cartman begrudgingly complied. "I'm good! Just saying good morning to Eric. What about _you_ , Mr. Best Man?" she teased. "How's the bachelor party going?"

"It's…interesting," Kyle replied, shooting Cartman a look. "Not what I expected, I guess. But hey, look at you! Nice dress. Are you going somewhere special?"

"Yeah, _are_ you?" Cartman asked her slowly, eyes narrowing.

For once, Heidi didn't seem to notice Cartman's suspicion, or, even worse, she was actively ignoring it. "No, I just wanted to look nice for my bae," she said cheerfully.

Kyle turned to Cartman with a smirk. "Oh, your _bae_? That's sweet."

Cartman wanted to gag. Or punch Kyle. Or punch Heidi. Or all three. "Okaaaaay, I think we're done here."

"But I was talking to Ky—"

"Sorry, babe, we gotta go. Guy stuff, you know."

"I get it." She deflated a bit, but the smile stayed on her face. "I love you! Have fun! And remember to stay safe, okay?"

"Wow, I definitely wasn't going to remember that, but now that you've said it, I will. Thanks so much. Love you too." He reached out a meaty finger to tap the End Call button.

"Bye, Heidi!" Kyle piped up, waving. Heidi got in half a wave before Cartman's finger hit the button.

Cartman felt his shoulders relax as soon as the call was over. Unfortunately, he couldn't relax too much, as Kyle plopped down in the seat across from his, coffee in hand. He stared at some emails on his phone, desperately trying to pretend Kyle wasn't there. It didn't work.

"So," Kyle started, looking at Cartman with his head cocked slightly to one side, "you busy?"

"No," Cartman said gruffly.

"Oh. Because you told Heidi you were—"

"What I tell Heidi is my business, Kahl."

"Got it." But Kyle didn't stop looking at him. "So you shaved off the beard and mustache…"

Cartman looked up, mildly surprised. "You noticed, huh?"

"Dude, I could see that from across the room," Kyle retorted. "I noticed while I was waiting in line to order. It's a pretty big difference."

"Yeah, well, I don't look like someone's creepy uncle anymore."

Kyle's eyebrows drew together. "What?"

"Yesterday. In the car. You said I look like someone's creepy uncle."

"Oh. Right." Kyle turned a little red. He averted Cartman's gaze, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Sure, you didn't." Cartman took a long slug of his coffee. It was hot. He choked. That only ticked him off further. "Why are you even here, Kyle? Stan still asleep? Off with some chick?"

Kyle looked pissed off for a second, as if he were about to lay into Cartman, but he recovered. "I want to ask you a couple things."

"What?"

"The first thing is about Kenny."

"We're not—"

"I know, I know, you guys aren't friends anymore. This is about something that happened in high school."

 _Something that happened in high school._ Based on the worried look on Kyle's face, Cartman knew exactly what Kyle was about to ask him. "Is this about Stan?"

Kyle looked taken aback. "Yeah, it is."

"And Bebe."

"Yeah. How did you—"

"Please, Kahl," Cartman said bitterly. "Why else would you want to talk to me about Kenny, unless it has to do with your precious Stan?"

Kyle clasped his hands together on the table and breathed out slowly. "I just need to know—"

"If I knew that Stan was a traitor? Of course, I knew. Kenny was my fucking best friend. He told me everything."

"Then…" Kyle trailed off, staring through Cartman, hand gripped so tightly around his cup that Cartman was afraid the cup would burst open. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't my job. Stan should have told you. Seriously, I can't believe it took him this long."

"He didn't tell me," Kyle said softly. "Wendy told me."

Cartman felt a laugh bubbling out of him. Against his better judgement, he let it escape his mouth. Kyle looked annoyed. Cartman wiped a tear from his eye. "Great, what a surprise. After all these years, Stan is still a major pussy."

"Kenny's the pussy!" Kyle exploded. Several people in the deli turned to stare at them. Kyle turned red and lowered the volume of his voice. "He didn't tell me what happened, either!"

"Again, that was Stan's job."

"Sure, but Kenny just stopped talking to me, without even checking to see if I knew what was going on." Kyle looked worried again. "Does he think that I knew about what did Stan did, and that I just didn't care?"

"I don't know," Cartman responded with a shrug. "Kenny stopped talking to me around the same time he stopped talking to you and Stan."

"I'm just… Ugh!" Kyle threw up his hands. "It's ridiculous! We were supposed to be friends! What kind of person just assumes something about their friend, without even asking them? It's—"

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

Kyle paused. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as he immediately positioned himself on the defensive. "What do you mean?"

"Did you talk to Stan about all this before coming to me?"

"Well…no," Kyle said hesitantly.

Cartman had to stop his lips from curling into a smile. "You're telling me that Wendy told you some shit about Stan, _your_ best friend, and you just believed her? Without even checking with him to see if it's true?" Kyle shifted awkwardly in his chair. "Sounds like you're a pretty shitty friend, too."

"I came to you first because you…" Kyle's lip trembled, and he pulled at his hair. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Cartman, you're the only one I can turn to. I was hoping maybe you had some more information about what happened."

Cartman's chest was growing warm again. "And you trust me? I could have just lied to you. Wendy could have been lying to you."

"Sure, but…" Kyle looked down at the table. He looked deep in thought. "Maybe I should have talked to Kenny. Even if I wanted to, though, he won't talk to me. And he was off somewhere last night, he didn't say where. Who knows if he even came back to his room last night? But he's in the same room as Butters; I should've asked Butters. On the other hand, I guess it would've been weird to bother him while he was doing…" Kyle shuddered "…whatever he was going." He sighed. "But you're right. I should've asked Stan if it was true."

"I know why you didn't ask Stan," Cartman inserted, sipping his coffee nonchalantly. "Because you didn't need to. You already knew it was true. Face it: after you heard that Stan is a backstabbing asshole, it just confirmed everything you already knew about him deep down."

Kyle didn't say a goddamn word. Cartman smiled. The tide was turning against Stan, albeit slowly, but it was moving nonetheless. This was another step in the right direction.

Soon Kyle would be his.

* * *

*This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!*

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	9. Chapter 9

**So sorry for the delay in posting an update! Real-life work and drama prevented me from sticking to my regular weekly Monday night uploads. But I'm back now, with plenty of ~angsty Craig~. Since Tweek is usually the one in fics who experiences mental health issues, I wanted to flip the script a bit and instead explore Craig's struggles with recovery and trauma. Let me know if that's something you want to see more or less of!**

 **Also, I know y'all are super busy, but I would appreciate it so much if you could take a minute or two out of your busy day to leave a review. Your engagement with this story is honestly what pushes me to keep writing it, so please please please share your thoughts, even if it's just "ok" or "cool" or "this sux." :)**

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" _Ugh_."

Craig blinked open his eyes, his lids heavy, his vision blurred. He moved up one sore arm to wipe his eyes. " _Ermph_."

Once his vision was more-or-less restored, he saw that he was in his hotel room. _Good,_ he thought. _No crazy shit went down last night._ He tried to remember what _did_ happen the night before, but his thoughts were as hazy as his sight. He recalled going to the girls' hotel room with Clyde and Butters, and drinking, and attempting to have sex with Kayla and failing, and listening to Butters have sex, and sitting in the living room with Clyde, and drinking… But that was it. How he got out of that room and into this one, he didn't have a clue.

As he turned over in bed to face away from the blinding sun through the window, he felt his breath catch.

Lying next to him, drooling, broad chest fully on display, was Clyde. In his bed. Only a few inches away. Possibly entirely naked.

In an effort to get away from Clyde, Craig scrambled in the opposite direction with all the force and speed he could muster, and, in doing so, accidentally launched himself off the bed.

" _Oof!_ "

As he sat on the floor, rubbing the spot on his ass that had collided with the carpet, he saw Clyde sleepily peer over the edge of the bed. "What are you doing down there?" he asked, yawning.

Craig frowned. "What are _you_ doing in my bed?"

"You mean _my_ bed."

With great effort, Craig pushed himself off the floor. Now that he was standing over the bed he just fell from, he could see that it was the bed closer to the window—in other words, Clyde's bed. Craig could feel his face getting a bit warm as he shuffled around Clyde's bed and deposited his tired ass onto his own.

"I'm guessing you don't remember getting into bed with me last night," Clyde said with a smirk.

Craig shot daggers at Clyde, his head throbbing. "What made you think that?"

"Jeez, you don't need get all bitchy about it." Clyde sat up and stretched. "You were a _lot_ nicer to me last night."

Craig froze. _What the fuck?_ "Clyde… What does that mean?" he asked quietly.

"Oh my God!" Clyde exploded in laughter, annoying the hell out of Craig. "You're so gullible!"

"What are you talking about?" Craig's fingers desperately wanted to curl into a fist, but he held back for now.

Clyde held up his hands defensively. "Nothing, man! Nothing happened, I promise."

Craig eyed him warily, but he wasn't too concerned. Clyde was too fucking straight to mess with Craig.

"What _do_ you remember from last night?" Clyde asked with a smile. "Probably not much. You were so wasted."

Craig recounted everything he could recall—leaving out his conversation with Kayla, of course. Clyde didn't need to know that Craig couldn't get hard, and that he had a heart-to-heart with a complete stranger.

Clyde cocked his head. "So you don't remember anything about our conversation with Kayla?

 _Shit._ "Conversation with Kayla?" Craig repeated, grasping at snippets of memories floating around in his mind. _Vodka shots… Kayla's laugh… Clyde bent over the couch…_ He closed his eyes. He had no idea what any of that meant.

"Yeah," Clyde said. "We were in the living room talking to Kayla for a while."

"What about…um…"

"Sarah? She went to the bathroom and got really sick. She was still DTF but I was like, uh, no, that's gross. So I sent her to bed. And Butters and his girl, they were getting it on for a while. I don't even wanna know what they were doing."

Craig didn't care about Butters' sex life or some chick getting sick. His mind was only occupied with one thing: whatever the hell they talked about in the living room. More specifically, if it was an extension of his conversation with Kayla. "What were we talking about?" he asked, steeling himself for something bad.

Clyde shrugged. "Mostly stories from high school." Craig tensed. _Here it fucking comes._ "Just, you know, random things. Kayla thought it was hilarious that we did all this stupid shit when we were kids. Like when we were all gonna go camping at Cheyenne Mountain, and Token crashed his brand-new fancy-ass Lexus into a tree after we were only on the road for like fifteen minutes? Or when we went to see Jimmy perform at that comedy festival outside of Boulder, and someone heckled him for being handicapped so he chucked one of his crutches at the guy's face and knocked him out?" Clyde chuckled. "Good stuff, man. I never really thought about it before, but we had a lot of adventures growing up."

Craig's head was pounding, visions of his high school friends passing through his mind like pages in a photo album. It seemed so familiar, but in another sense, he felt so attached from all of that. It was like something from a past life.

Another terrifying thought entered his mind. "Did you talk about…you know…?"

He thought that maybe Clyde wouldn't understand what he was hinting at, but Clyde clearly got it, his face contorting into a look that could only be described as solemn. "No. Just funny stories."

Craig felt relieved, but only for a moment. His memory of Clyde doubled over on the couch was becoming more vivid. "Did you get sick, too?"

"No." Clyde looked confused. "Why?"

"You were…puking, or something? In the living room?"

Clyde broke out into another grin. "That was another story we were telling Kayla. When we were at my birthday party, and Tweek—" He stopped, eyeing Craig carefully. "I guess there was one story," he said slowly. Craig just stared back at him, waiting for him to continue. "Like I said, it was at my house, and Tweek couldn't hold his liquor. Some things never change, huh?" Clyde smiled, starting to loosen up as he continued the story. "And he just threw up _all over_ you. And then you got grossed out, and so _you_ threw up on _him_. And then Stan saw what happened and, well, you know Stan, so _he_ threw up, and then—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the idea." Craig remembered that night well. It wasn't just that Tweek drank too much, although that had certainly happened; he was also stressed out by all the noise at the party. Craig had promised him that they could leave soon after playing seven minutes in heaven, but he got into a bunch of stupid party games and didn't want to leave, and Tweek had stuck around faithfully by his side all night. All these years later, Craig still felt a pang of guilt. Tweek was always so good to him. That is, until… He clenched his teeth. He didn't need to think about this right now. He focused back on Clyde. "So you thought it would be a good idea to act out a story about a bunch of drunk guys puking in front of a chick who barely knows you?"

"Hey, what can I say?" Clyde replied. "She laughed. We were cracking her up all night."

"And then what? How the fuck did I get into bed with you?"

"Well, we came back here—you were super drunk—and I got into bed, and then you decided to throw yourself onto my bed, too. I was so drunk that I, like, couldn't move you at all." Clyde's eye twinkled. "Before you went to sleep, you leaned over real close and were like, 'no homo.' Which I thought was funny, coming from you."

"Why would that be funny coming from me?" Craig asked defensively.

Clyde's mouth flattened, but the twinkle remained. "Come on, man. I know you're not bi. It's obvious you don't have any interest in chicks."

"Dude!" Craig's head kept pounding, louder, louder. He didn't understand. "Why did you want me to flirt with a bunch of girls yesterday if you think I don't like girls!"

"Hey, I didn't think you were actually going to do it! I kept waiting for you to be like, 'sorry, I only like guys.'"

"Then why did you let me get in bed with you?" Craig asked angrily. "If I like guys so much, I could've tried something."

Clyde's mouth quivered, but just a bit. Craig couldn't tell if Clyde was trying to stifle a smile or a laugh. "I didn't say you like _all_ guys. Just…particular guys." Clyde paused. Craig narrowed his eyes. "Or guy—"

"Fuck you, Clyde."

Craig hurled the obscenity across the room like a knife, with biting precision. There was no blood, but Clyde looked visibly wounded. The mood in the room had taken an abrupt turn. "Seriously, Craig," Clyde murmured, "I know he hurt you, but that was years ago. You can't just not talk about it—"

Craig let out a bitter snort. He was so fucking done with this conversation. "I _do_ talk about it! I've been talking about it once a week for almost six years." Clyde fell silent, staring at Craig. "That's right, dude, I'm fucking crazy. I go to a shrink, the same one I've been going to since high school, since…"

As Craig trailed off, Clyde seized the opportunity, regaining his confidence. He leapt to his feet. "You're doing it again, man! You can talk about this all you want with a therapist or whatever, but what's the point of that if you can't talk about it in your regular life, with your friends?"

Craig couldn't stop his eyebrows from shooting up. "We're friends?"

Clyde looked wounded again. His eyes got glassy. He sniffed. "…I _want_ to be."

"Dude, you don't have to be such a pussy about it," Craig said, rolling his eyes.

But Clyde didn't stop, even as Craig started to hear a hitch in his throat. "And Tweek wants to be, too!" The mention of Tweek's name made Craig flinch. "He talks about you. He wants to talk _to_ you."

"Good for him."

"You have to stop blowing him off!"

"I'm not blowing him off!" Craig exploded. "What do you want me to do? Go up to him and say, 'Hey Tweek, how's it going? How have you been since high school? Good? You went to college and go on trips to Cabo with your pals? That's cool. Me? Oh, I haven't done much—just stayed in South Park, working a dead-end job, smoking and drinking every day since you _fucking destroyed me_.' How's that for an ice breaker?" Before he could see Clyde's reaction, he grabbed his phone off the bed and stormed out of the room, letting the door shut loudly behind him with a resounding _thud_.

He found himself in the hallway, staring at a bunch of identical doors. He hadn't had a game plan in mind when he left the room, and now didn't know where to go.

He read the number on the door right in front of him.

 _1214._

Tweek's room.

All Craig knew is that he had to talk to Dave, right this very minute, before he did something he would regret.

He went to his recent calls list. Dave was always on there. He spotted Dave's name and pressed on it instantly, pulling his phone up to his ear and walking quickly towards the other end of the hallway, as far as possible from room 1214.

"Come on, come on…" It seemed like the ringing was going on forever. Craig started to sweat, imagining that Dave would never pick up. And why would he? He was probably busy with another client, someone with more important issues than feeling confused about talking to his ex—

"Hello? Craig?"

The familiar voice brought Craig back down to reality, as it had countless times before. "Dave. Hi. It's me.

"Craig, I'm so glad you called." Dave's voice was deep, soothing. Craig instantly felt himself relaxing, even just a bit. "I was wondering how the weekend was going so far."

"Fine," Craig replied, a little too hastily. He didn't know why he always did this. He knew Dave could read him like a book, even over the phone, so why did he feel the need to keep up this charade? He let out a long stream of air through his nose. He didn't have time to beat around the bush; he needed advice, right the fuck now. As soon as he opened his mouth, it all came gushing out of him. "Apparently Tweek brings me up around the other guys. Clyde said that Tweek wants to talk to me. He wants me to go talk to Tweek. I think I want to talk to Tweek."

His outburst was met with silence. Craig felt anxious, but he knew he had to wait. Sometimes it took Dave a few moments to gather his thoughts. "You're calling because you want to know if I think you're ready."

 _Damn, he's good._ "Look, I know you're going to say that _I_ have to decide when I'm ready, and all that shit—"

"No, I think you're ready."

Craig blinked. "You do?"

"Of course, I do. Craig, I don't know if you can see it, because it has happened so gradually over time, but you are not the same person you were when I first started seeing you. Remember, at the beginning, you used to have to come talk to me every two-to-three days. You were shaking. You could barely open up at all. You were harming yourself."

Craig felt the searing pain on his arm, as if it were happening to him right now. Was he about to dissociate? There was no way he could be ready for this. Dave was mistaken.

But Dave continued. "And now, look, you're not doing any of those things. You have a stable job, you socialize, you—"

Craig snorted. "You see 'stable job,' and I see 'dead-end minimum wage job.' You see 'socializing,' and I see 'alcoholism and smoking addiction.' Does that sound like someone who's ready to confront the guy who ruined his life?"

"Alright, well, for one thing, he didn't ruin your self. Nobody wants their heart broken, but you lived through the pain, and you grew stronger. The second thing is that you'll never be perfectly ready to talk to Tweek. You'll always be battling something. This may be your only opportunity to speak with him in a very long time, and if I recall correctly, that's something you've been fantasizing about for years."

 _Fantasizing_. Craig didn't like that word. Sure, he had planned what he would say to Tweek, gone over it in his head ten thousand times, but it wasn't a fantasy. It was scary. A nightmare. Could he ever be prepared for a nightmare? "What if I do something stupid?"

"Like what?"

"Like…" Craig shut his eyes. He thought about yesterday, grabbing Tweek's arm, staring at his lips. All Craig had wanted to do was lean over and taste him, savor him, devour him. "I talked to him yesterday."

"Oh." Dave sounded surprised. "But not about the breakup?"

God, Craig hated when Dave referred to it as "the breakup." It sounded like something in which two people partake, something mutual. It didn't at all sound like someone ripping your heart out of your chest and smashing it into the ground.

"No. We just talked about…nothing. Being awkward, I guess. We agreed to try to act more normal around each other this weekend."

"And did it change the way you two acted around each other?"

"Yeah. It was a lot better at dinner after that. Less…weird."

"So if you could talk to him yesterday, what makes you think you can't talk to him again?"

"Because it was so fucking _hard_." Craig felt warm, salty tears stinging his eyes. He didn't know where they came from. "And that was _him_ coming to _me_. If I have to start a conversation with him, and not just any conversation, but _the_ conversation, where I ask what happened and why he screwed me over and why I wasn't good enough for him… I don't know how to do that."

"Are you afraid you might revert to your old behaviors?"

"Yeah, and…what if he likes me?"

"What if he does?"

Craig grit his teeth, the tears finally falling from his eyes. "You're the fucking doctor, Dave. Are you saying it's okay if I kiss him? What if I fuck him? Are you saying it's okay to get close to him again?"

"That's up to you. I'm not going to dictate who you choose to pursue a relationship with."

"What about all that 'trauma' bullshit you always talk about?! You want me to relive that?"

"Who's saying you would relive your trauma?" The question caught Craig off guard. He wiped his eyes and pressed the phone closer to his ear. "What you and Tweek had was special. You've said that to me so many times. You were also very young when you were dating. I say that not to undermine the hurt you felt, but rather to put his actions in perspective; teenagers don't always handle romantic situations in the best way. They're still learning about themselves and what they want in a relationship. He wasn't abusive to you, Craig. You have made that abundantly clear. He hurt you by breaking up with you. People break up with each other all the time. That doesn't make them bad people, and it doesn't mean they can't get back together again. I didn't think it would be conducive to your recovery to talk to him at the time and ask him why he broke up with you, and that was because the wounds, so to speak, were still fresh. You have had years since then to process your emotions. Now, if you find yourself in a situation where he wants to pursue a relationship with you, and you are amenable to that, you could be picking up where you both left off, in a very healthy, loving relationship. Or, maybe not. In a nutshell, Tweek's actions don't concern me. _Yours_ do. As long as you are not triggered by the conversation so significantly that you relapse into the state of mind you were in six years ago, you will be fine. It is not inherently a bad idea to kiss him, if you so wish. You are an adult, you have a much healthier mindset, and you are at a point at which I believe you are fully capable of making such decisions. Does that answer your question, Craig?"

Craig's silence said it all. He didn't know how to respond. Dave had no incentive to lie to him, but at the same time, Craig didn't feel like a healthy, capable adult. But maybe Dave was right, and this ambivalence and shittiness and confusion was just what healthy, capable adults normally feel in these types of situations.

"Craig? Are you still with me?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Good. I have to go now, but I want you to remember that this is _your_ choice. If don't feel comfortable confronting Tweek, you don't have to, alright?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Thanks for calling, Craig. I'll talk to you later."

Craig waited for Dave to hang up before pulling the phone away from his face. _Confronting Tweek._ That sounded a hell of a lot scarier than _talking_ to Tweek.

But he had to do it. Like Dave said, Craig had been waiting for this moment for years. If he didn't seize it, he might never get the chance again.

Taking a deep breath, he walked back down the hallway towards room 1214, and knocked on the door.

Nothing happened.

He looked down at his phone. He didn't remember when everyone was supposed to meet up for lunch. Maybe everyone but Clyde and him were out on the town. For all he knew, there might not be anyone in this the room.

He knocked again. This time, within a few seconds, it was opened. And there was Token, standing in nothing but a skimpy towel tied around his waist. His pecs were too defined for Craig's liking. It made Craig feel inferior.

"Hey," he said to Token, hiding his nerves behind a blank expression.

Token looked a bit taken aback. He ran a hand over his fade. "Uh, you looking for Tweek?"

Craig almost said "no"as a gut response, before remembering that yes, he was in fact looking for Tweek. "Yeah."

"He's not here. He went downstairs."

"Oh, okay. Thanks." He turned to walk towards the elevators when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You might want some shoes."

Craig looked down. He was still wearing his yesterday's clothes, sans shoes, or socks. "Right. Good call."

"No problem, man." Token gave him a curt nod and closed the door.

Luckily, Craig had a room key in the pocket of his rumpled pants. He slid it into the card reader for room 1215 and stepped inside. The bathroom door was closed, and he could hear the what sounded like the shower running. _Perfect._ He didn't have to endure Clyde judging him as he changed.

Once he was wearing shoes and an outfit that didn't smell of cigarette smoke and booze, he stuffed his phone and wallet in his pockets and headed downstairs. He remembered seeing a deli by the casino when they came back from dinner last night, with a big neon COFFEE sign in the window. If Tweek was downstairs, there was no other place he would be.

As Craig walked through the casino, past rows and rows of slot machines, he couldn't help feeling utter disdain for all the losers wiling away the hours overnight at these machines, never winning a dime. At least he spent his money on things you could consume: chips, beer, tobacco, porn… Once you lost this money, you weren't getting anything in return. The sight of so many middle-aged, overweight assholes made him feel a little better about himself.

That's when Craig spotted someone too young to be the typical ten-in-the-morning casino-goer. Moreover, this guy looked like he was dead, his face pressed down onto the buttons, his hair a wild mess of blond tangles…

 _Oh fuck._

This guy was Tweek.

Craig rushed over to the machine, jerking back Tweek's shoulders. "Tweek, dude, come on!"

In a flash, Tweek's torso straightened up, and his eyes popped open. " _Ah!_ What the hell! What's going on!"

Craig let out a deep sigh of relief. "Jesus Christ, dude! I thought you were dead!"

"Why would I be dead?!" Tweek screeched, throwing up his arms.

"Shhh." Craig took the seat next to him. "It's okay, you're fine. I just wanted to make sure you were alive."

"Of course I am!" Tweek was still yelling, but it was at a slightly lower decibel, and for him that was an accomplishment.

"Why were you sleeping at a slot machine?" Craig only then noticed that Tweek looked like hell—he had dark bags under his eyes, which were bloodshot, and a patchy five o'clock shadow was visible on cheeks and chin.

"I didn't mean to," Tweek said, much more quietly now. "I wanted to get a coffee, but Cartman and Kyle sitting in there, and I really didn't feel like dealing with Cartman right now."

"Who ever does?" Craig snorted.

"Anyway, I came to sit here and wait for them to go away. I bet like a dollar, and then I guess I fell asleep."

Craig pressed the RECEIPT button on the screen in front of Tweek. The machine spat out a glossy piece of paper. Craig examined it. "You won two dollars."

He pushed it towards Tweek. Tweek furrowed his brow and squinted at it. "Huh. Look at that. Maybe I don't have such bad luck after all."

"That's optimistic, coming from a guy who looks like he just got run over by a truck."

Tweek stared at him curiously, like he hadn't expected that of all things to come from Craig's lips. Craig's mouth went dry. Had he insulted Tweek? Had he gone too far? Were they not at a place yet where they could joke around with each other?

If Tweek was offended, he didn't show it. He just slumped down a bit in his seat and wiped a hand across his face. "I went out to a club last night. I had way too much to drink."

"You went out to a club?" Craig repeated, almost in disbelief. He was still getting used to the fact that Tweek, twitchy old anxiety-ridden Tweek, liked to party.

Tweek groaned. "First Cartman, and now you? Seriously, who cares if I go out to clubs sometimes!"

"You talked to Cartman about this?"

"'Talked' sounds too civil for what it was. He was just being a dick."

Craig experienced Cartman being a dick on a near-daily basis. But the idea of Cartman doing it to Tweek was almost unbearable. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing! It's fine! I just don't get why everyone's so surprised. Tons of people go to clubs, you know?"

"Do you even like going to clubs?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Tweek asked hesitantly.

"Maybe it's what Clyde, Token, and Jimmy want to do."

"What's wrong with doing what my friends want to do?"

 _My friends_. Craig winced. Obviously he knew they were Tweek's friends, but hearing Tweek say it out loud was hard to hear. They weren't "Craig and those guys" anymore. They hadn't been for years.

Craig sighed. "Nothing, dude. But you shouldn't feel pressured to do what your friends want to do all the time."

"Who said they pressure me?" Tweek asked, narrowing his eyes.

Well, this wasn't fucking working. Tweek was getting defensive, and they weren't even talking about what Craig came here to talk about. At this rate, he would just end up making Tweek angry. He had to try a different tack.

"Tweek, I—"

"Hey, Craig!"

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. Not until its source came right up behind him and threw her arms around his neck. He stiffened. "Hi, Kayla."

Tweek looked confused. Craig was about to ask her to leave when she stood between them an extended her hand to Tweek. "So sorry to interrupt! I'm Kayla." She looked different from yesterday—more makeup, hair done up, wearing a dress. She looked…girly. Craig didn't like it.

Tweek shook Kayla's hand like a limp tissue. "Tweek."

"Oh, _Tweek_!" She said it as if she had just spotted a celebrity. "Who can't hold his alcohol!"

Tweek looked even more confused.

"We hung out last night," Craig muttered. "She heard some stories from high school."

"Oh." Tweek's eyes flickered between Craig's face and Kayla's. "She's the girl from last night."

"Yeah, but—"

"I guess I'll leave you two to talk. I need a coffee anyway." Tweek stood up and started walking away towards the deli.

"Wait—"

Kayla took Tweek's seat and inserted five dollars into the machine in front of her. "I haven't actually tried this yet. Have you? Hey, maybe I'll actually win something."

Craig stood up and looked out over the sea of people. The slot machines were too tall to see over, and they were blocking everything. This place was a fucking maze; he couldn't tell which way the deli was.

With a sigh, he sat back down, listening to Kayla talk about a weird dream she had the night before.

Guess his talk with Tweek would have to wait a little while longer.

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 ***This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!***

 **Want to reach me privately? You can PM me here or on Tumblr FonicsMonkeyFF!**


	10. Chapter 10

**So many of you requested it, so here it is: Token's very own chapter! I feel like he's such an underrated and underutilized character, so I wanted to give him a motive...and some drama too, of course. And, as promised, you also get to see more into the mind of one Mr. Tweek Tweak. :)**

 **Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and PM's—I read and respond to each and every one of them. 3**

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"Tweek? What are you doing here?"

Token took a seat next to Tweek at the bar, looking at him curiously. When he came downstairs to grab a coffee, he hadn't expected to find his friend sitting at the circular bar in the middle of the casino, staring vacantly at the ESPN baseball coverage on the flat-screen in front of him. Tweek hated sports. More importantly, Token had never seen Tweek go to a bar by himself, much less at ten-thirty in the morning. And Tweek was drinking. At ten-thirty in the morning.

Token gestured at Tweek's glass. "Isn't it a little early for that?"

Tweek took a sip. "It's just Sprite. I'm fighting a hangover, man."

"So you're just sitting here, alone?"

"Butters was here before. He was looking for Kenny. I guess Kenny didn't go back to their room last night."

"He was probably in some random girl's room," Token said impatiently. "I don't care about Kenny. You didn't answer what _you're_ doing here."

Tweek shut his eyes and sighed. "I'm hiding from Craig and his girlfriend."

"Craig has a girlfriend?" This was news to Token. Not that he had really talked to Craig in years. But still, the idea of Craig with a _girlfriend_ seemed patently ridiculous. The fact that Craig had gone out with Clyde and Butters to hang out with some girls, even just for sex, was strange enough.

"Mm-hmm," Tweek nodded somberly. "It's the girl from last night."

Token had to stifle a smile. "Tweek, just because they had sex doesn't mean she's his girlfriend."

Tweek's head dropped onto the bar, and he let out a frustrated groan. "Well, how am I supposed to know!"

Good point. As far as Token understood, Tweek had only ever had sex with one person, and that person had been his boyfriend.

"What made you think she's his girlfriend?"

"She came over when we were talking, and she was all over him!"

Token raised his eyebrows. "Wow, Craig actually ended up going to talk to you? From the look on face, I thought for sure he was going to chicken out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Craig dropped by our room this morning. He was looking for you."

Tweek's face turned beet red. "He was?"

"Yeah." Token studied Tweek's face. It was a mix of embarrassment, overwhelm, and, more strikingly, a glimmer of hope. "Did he say why he wanted to talk to you?"

Tweek shook his head. "No. We only talked for a couple minutes. He spent the whole time judging me for going out drinking." He groaned again. "He probably thinks I'm a loser."

"I don't think so."

"I know _you_ don't think I'm a loser," Tweek replied in an exasperated tone.

"No, I mean, I don't think _Craig_ thinks you're a loser. He's probably just surprised that you go out drinking. You never did that kind of stuff when you two were dating."

As soon as Token said those words, he knew he had opened the floodgates. There was nothing Tweek liked talking about more than his high school romance with Craig. Clyde always encouraged these conversations, but they made Token a little uncomfortable. As far as he was concerned, Tweek spent way too much time fantasizing about a life with Craig. It was entirely unrealistic; after Craig's big freak-out the summer before senior year of high school, when he shut them all out, there was no way he would ever get back together with Tweek.

That being said, Craig had been spending a strange amount of time with Clyde during this trip, and he actually sought out Tweek. Maybe Craig did want to go back to the way things used to be. Where that would leave Token, he wasn't sure.

"I don't think Miami is the right place for me."

Token snapped out of his thoughts. Tweek was staring ahead again, but this time he had a spark of something in his eyes.

"Tweek—"

"Hear me out. I really appreciate your dad using his connections to get me that job. I think we all appreciate having jobs thanks to him. It's just… I really hate working there, Token. You're great at all the finance stuff, and Clyde and Jimmy are doing really well in the sales department. But I'm doing all this data entry stuff that's so… _boring_."

"I'm sure my dad can find you another position—"

"I don't want another position. I don't want to work for another company in Miami. Miami is hot and humid. It's far away from my family and…" Tweek trailed off, taking a big gulp of his Sprite.

"…And Craig," Token finished, finally understanding. He should have known. "Tweek, that's a big step. Don't you think you should talk to him first? See how this weekend goes?"

" _This weekend?_ How am I supposed to say everything I want to say to him in less than two days?! I don't have enough time!"

"Enough time for what?"

"For him to start trusting me again!" Tweek's hands were trembling. He clearly noticed, and balled them up. "If I move back to South Park, help my dad run Tweek Bros., then maybe I can start hanging out with Craig and…"

"And what? You're going move across the country to be with someone who might not even like you?"

"At least then I'll have a shot!" Tweek shrieked. He seemed to startle himself, jumping at the volume of his own voice. After pausing for a second to catch his breath, he continued, albeit a bit softer. "I haven't stopped thinking about him for six years, Token. _Six years._ Do you know what that feels like?"

"Of course not. But he isn't the same Craig you liked in high school."

"Loved," Tweek murmured, casting his eyes down.

"Sorry, _loved_. He's a different person, Tweek. He has a lot of issues."

"And I don't? Look at me. _Ah!_ I'm a spaz." Token glanced at Tweek's hands again, which hadn't stopped shaking.

"But you're doing better than you used to. Craig could mess that up."

"I'll take that chance," Tweek scoffed, setting his glass down on the table a little too hard.

"Okay, but even if you can handle this new version of Craig, you don't know if you'll even still love him."

Tweek's eyes flew up to Token's face, staring intently, boring a hole into his skull. "I'll love any version of Craig."

Just then, out of the corner of his eyes, Token spotted another blonde joining them at the bar, a few seats away. It was Kenny. He looked like a wreck.

Token didn't want to end this conversation with Tweek, didn't want to let Tweek leave thinking that moving back to South Park was a bright idea, but Kenny was too close. He would hear everything.

That being said, Kenny also appeared to be in his own little world. He was attempting to snap his fingers to get the bartender's attention, and it was a futile attempt, because he seemed so exhausted that his snaps barely made any sound. Eventually the bartender noticed him and ran over. "Shot of vodka," Kenny mumbled. "Anything. As long as it's strong. Oh, and a beer."

Token turned to Tweek, who was raising his eyebrows and mouthing " _Stay out of it._ "

But Token couldn't help himself. Kenny looked too pitiful to ignore. He turned to Kenny and, brows furrowed in concern, asked, "Hey, man. You okay?"

Nothing. He tried again.

"Hey, Kenny… Butters is looking for you."

He thought he heard Kenny snort, but it was so quiet that he couldn't be sure. "Whoop-dee-freakin'-doo," Kenny said, tipping back his head and downing his shot in one go, after which he raised his finger in the air. "Hit me again."

Token heard Tweek shift on his stool. "I thought you don't drink," he piped up.

Kenny glared at them both. "I don't." As soon as the bartender deposited the second shot in front of him, it all went straight down Kenny's throat.

Token wasn't sure what to do. He didn't know Kenny very well, but something about this seemed really off. "Kenny—"

"Can you just shut up?" Kenny hiccupped. "Bartender!"

The bartender eyed him warily and walked over. "I'm on break for ten minutes. I'll be right back." She scooted out of the bar and strode across the casino floor, leaving Kenny in the lurch.

Kenny ran a hand through his wild hair. "Fuck." He slapped the table. "How hard is it to get a fucking drink around here?"

"You already got two," Token pointed out. "Not counting the beer."

Kenny swiveled around to look at him. "And that's your business now?"

"No," Token said slowly, "but if you keep drinking, you'll regret it."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. _You're_ the one who wouldn't do the champagne toast at dinner last night. You said you gave up drugs and alcohol, like, years ago. Remember? When Cartman was grabbing your glass—"

Kenny covered his ears. "Don't talk about Eric fucking Cartman. I don't need to think about more bad shit right now."

"Yeah, fuck him," Tweek concurred, raising his glass in the air.

Token looked at Tweek with confusion. "What do _you_ have against Cartman?"

"I don't have anything," Tweek replied bitterly. "I _had_ leverage! And then I lost it!"

" _What_?"

Kenny leaned over the bar to see Tweek, suddenly curious. "Yeah, what did you have on him?"

Tweek blinked, growing flustered by the attention. "Um—"

Kenny's eyes widened. The alcohol was clearly starting to sink in, as he swayed slightly. "Dude, you know something. What do you know?"

"Tweek," Token said carefully, "what _do_ you know?"

Tweek grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Too much pressure!"

Kenny smacked the table again. "Just spill it!"

" _Ah!_ Cartman's gay!" Within half a second, his hands were covering his mouth.

Token didn't know what reaction he expected from Kenny, but he definitely didn't expect nothing. Kenny's face was a blank canvas.

"No shit," Kenny said simply, leaning back on the stool.

Token, on the other hand, was still confused. "But… Wait, isn't Cartman still dating Heidi?"

Kenny didn't look at him. "Yes."

"Does Heidi know he's gay?"

"No."

Token threw up his hands. "So, what, nobody's going to tell her?"

Kenny's eyes were half-lidded, his teeth clenched. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her. It's worked for seven years. Why mess with it."

"Cartman's been gay for _seven years_?"

"Probably longer. That's just when I found out about it."

Token looked at Tweek, who seemed just as shocked as he was. He didn't know how to process this information. Kenny knew this whole time, and never told Heidi? Token didn't have Heidi's contact info, but he had half a mind to find it and tell her himself.

Kenny pursed his lips. "I know what you're thinking. Go do it. Have fun ruining a woman's life."

Token opened his mouth to respond, when suddenly the air was filled with a loud screech.

" _Kenny!_ "

Token and Tweek turned around to find the source of the noise. It was faint enough that at first Token thought he might have imagined it.

" _Kenny fucking McCormick, where are you?!_ "

Nope. He definitely wasn't imagining that.

Kenny remained stone-faced as he looked forward, finally taking a swig of his beer. Token narrowed his eyes. "I think someone's looking for you," he said.

Kenny didn't bat an eyelid. "Fucking duh."

All of a sudden, Token spotted Wendy Testaburger amidst the rows of slot machines, marching towards the bar with the vigor of an angry lioness. She had lost some weight since high school, and it looked like she was putting more effort into her appearance these days, but she was unmistakable; in Token's twenty-three years on this planet, he had never encountered a girl who could get as fired-up as Wendy could. Sure, other girls would get pissed off, but nobody could be as intimidating as Wendy. Honestly, it was kind of sexy.

"Token," Tweek leaned over and whispered, his eyes wide, "why is— _ah!_ —why is Wendy Testaburger at Stan's bachelor party?"

Amidst Tweek's pining, Kenny's lack of sobriety, and the news about Cartman, it hadn't dawned on Token how strange this new situation was. "No idea, dude." He glanced at Kenny. The guy still hadn't turned around.

Token and Tweek watched as Wendy strode up to Kenny, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him off the barstool. Kenny fell backwards and stumbled a bit, but he didn't say a thing. Wendy glared at him, her hands curled into fists. "What the hell did you do?" she seethed.

Kenny shoved his hands in his pockets. "Not what you think."

"Oh, really?" she scoffed, folding her arms. "Because I think you spent the night with Bebe!"

"What the fuck?!" Tweek yelped. His trembling hands flew to his mouth again.

Wendy was unperturbed by the outburst. "Well? Are you going to tell me that's _not_ what happened?"

"I didn't 'spend the night' with her," Kenny snapped.

"Please! You stayed up with her _all night_. She told me so herself! Are you calling her a liar?"

"No. But I didn't sleep with her."

"I never said you did, you asshole."

"Since when is talking to someone a crime?" He sat back on the stool and drank from the bottle in front of him. "Bebe can talk to whoever she wants. She's a free woman."

Wendy reached over and grabbed the beer from him. "Oh, don't act like you're some kind of feminist. We both know she can talk to whoever she wants, but it's just a little suspicious if she's hanging out by the pool for hours, alone, with _you_ , don't you think?"

"So what!" He pulled the beer out of her hand and drank. "I didn't force her to talk to me! She wanted to. It's not my fault she likes me."

"She doesn't— _ugh!—_ " Wendy seized control of the bottle again. "—like you!"

"Then I guess she _did_ lie to you."

Wendy froze. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Kenny snorted. "If you really think that Bebe is happy with Stan, then you're just as stupid as he is. And you're a shitty best friend."

Wendy didn't respond at first. She just stared. Finally, in a quiet tone, she asked, "How did you even know that she's staying here?"

"She checked in on Facebook," he replied, his voice tinged with self-satisfaction.

"And you thought that would be the perfect opportunity to break up an engaged couple?"

"I'm not breaking up anybody." Kenny sounded calm at first, but he started speaking louder and louder. "Like I said, she's a grown woman. She can make her own decisions."

"It's hard to make good decisions when you're drunk off your ass!"

"Are you saying I pressured her?"

"I have no idea what you did! You could have sexually assaulted her for all I know! She barely remembers anything!"

In a flash, Kenny's hand was on Wendy's arm. Startled, she dropped the bottle, sending it shattering into a million pieces on the ground. The sound of glass on tiles was loud, but barely audible amongst the din of the slot machines. Token had gotten so used to the ambient noise that the pause that followed the sound of glass breaking seemed almost like a deathly silence. From his seat a few feet away, Token could see Kenny's knuckles grow white.

"Listen to me, you cunt," Kenny hissed, his eyes ablaze. "I would _never_ hurt Bebe."

Wendy jerked away and rubbed her arm. All of a sudden, Kenny's demeanor changed. He blinked slowly and looked the red mark on Wendy's arm. His gaze softened. "It's none of your business what we did last night," he said quietly. "But she consented to all of it. You have no right to act like I'm some fucking rapist."

Wendy breathed in sharply. " _All_ of it?" she repeated. "So you _did_ do something! You motherfucking—"

She launched herself at Kenny, sending his body crashing down to the ground. Tweek gasped and grabbed Token's shirt, as Wendy's fists pummeled Kenny's face.

Token sat stock-still, staring. Was he supposed to break up the fight? He barely understood what was going on, and why Wendy was here, and why Kenny spent all night with Bebe. But whatever was happening, it was getting intense, and it didn't look like the bartender would be returning any time soon. And hell, Tweek certainly wasn't going to do anything.

Token took a deep breath, jumped off the stool, and wrapped his strong arms around Wendy's waist. She kicked and muttered expletives in protest as he wrenched her away from Kenny and deposited her back on her feet. "Wendy," he said gently, his hands gripping her forearms, "I know you're mad at Kenny, but you can work this out without beating the crap out of him."

It was only then that he noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks. "No…I can't," she said, a sob wracking her body. "I can't work it out at all. It's all my fault."

He wasn't sure whether it was because she looked so desperate, or because somewhere between high school and now she had turned into a beautiful woman, tears and all, but suddenly Token was overcome with the desire to hold her. He let his hands slide down her back and pulled her body towards his. Her body flinched slightly, but she didn't push back, instead burying her face in his chest and releasing another sob.

Token closed his eyes. He flashed back to the summer before high school, the last and only other time he had stood in this exact position. Wendy and Stan had finally broken up for good, and she had decided to ask out Token on a date. As they stood by Stark's Pond trying to skip stones across the water, she broke down crying over the breakup. Token had stood there, hugging her, letting her get snot all over his nice shirt, for a good twenty minutes. They never went on another date after that.

This time was different. Almost as soon as it had begun, it was over. Wendy pushed away and wiped her face, refusing to look Token in the eyes. "I need to talk to Kyle," she mumbled. Token frowned. _Kyle?_

After a few beats, Tweek made a small noise. "I saw him in the deli!" he burst out. "With Cartman!"

Wendy nodded, still staring at the floor. Before Token could say anything else to her, she left, briskly walking back down the aisle towards the deli.

Token turned to Tweek, who was twitching more than usual. Then he remembered Kenny.

Kenny was back up on his feet, dusting himself off. His face was already starting to swell. Despite Kenny's battle wounds, Token could feel a rage bubbling up inside him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Token barked at Kenny.

The bloodied blonde looked at him, his face sporting a look of confusion. "What?"

"You heard me, McCormick. You think you can just grab Wendy like a doll, and call her a _cunt_?"

Kenny's face colored. "I, uh… I didn't mean to do that."

"So you _accidentally_ grabbed her like a doll and called her a cunt? That's what you're saying?"

"Why the fuck do you care so much about Wendy all of a sudden?" Kenny snarled. "You're not her guardian angel. I don't know if you noticed, but she obviously doesn't need one. She beat the living shit out of me."

Token didn't have a response to that. He didn't know why he cared about Wendy after not seeing her for so long. All he knew is that something, some feeling, was awakened within him, and he couldn't let this fucking douchebag get away with hurting Wendy. Sure, Wendy hurt Kenny, too, but Kenny made her cry. He had never, ever seen Wendy Testaburger cry. And he was going to do everything in his power to make sure he wouldn't have to see it again.

Token's eyes darkened as Kenny began staggering out of the bar. "Just stay away from her," Token said—or rather, commanded.

"I _was_ staying away from her," he heard Kenny mutter. "She fucking came up to me."

"Then stay away from Bebe, too."

Kenny didn't reply to this. He just kept walking.

Once Kenny was out of sight, Token sighed, his shoulders falling. He hadn't realized how tense he was.

He glanced up at Tweek, still on the barstool, staring at him intently. "Dude, don't look at me like that."

Tweek flinched. "Why did you have to get between them? Now you're involved!"

"I'm not _involved_ —"

"You— _ah!_ —hugged Wendy!"

"That doesn't mean I'm involved!"

"It means you want to be! At least, with Wendy!"

"No, I don't," Token said hesitantly, scratching his head. "I just want to help her out."

"You're hot for her, man! Don't lie to me."

"So what if I am?"

"Token." Tweek stopped twitching. Token could tell that Tweek was focusing so hard, the wheels in his brain spinning a hundred miles an hour. He always stopped twitching when he really put his mind to it. He had developed that skill over the years; Token noticed it getting stronger after the breakup with Craig, maybe out of necessity.

"You're not some kind of knight in shining armor," Tweek continued, his breathing growing quiet. "You're not going to save her or something. She's Wendy Testaburger. She's a bitch."  
"Hey!"

"You know it's true. And if you get into this mess… Bebe's involved, which means Stan's involved, which means Kyle's involved… Do you really want to deal with all that?"

Token most certainly did not. He just came here to have a fun weekend. "It's not like I'm in love with her or anything," he said with a sigh. "I… I don't know, Tweek. I just want to help someone out for once, you know? Sometimes I feel like everything is happening around me, and there's nothing I can do. Like the whole thing with you and Craig. Or Clyde wanting to go back to hanging out with Craig, like I don't exist or something. Or… Or Stan wanting to talk to me, and Kyle being a baby about it, and I have no idea why. Or the whole Kenny and Cartman and Heidi thing! How the hell am I supposed to get involved in that?"

"You can't."

"Exactly!" Token paused, looking out across the casino. "But if I can stop Kenny from pissing off Wendy, stop him from seeing Bebe behind Stan's back… Then I'm actually _doing_ something."

He turned back to Tweek, his arms crossed, his jaw set with determination.

"Finally."

* * *

 ***This is a participatory fic; I welcome any and all requests for this fic related to plot, character, point of view, etc. Let me know in the comments below!***

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